Reparations
by Ista
Summary: Castiel wakes up on the side of the road after setting the Leviathans loose. The angel soon realizes he's been sent back to Earth for a reason: Dean's being held captive by a group of vampires. But will saving Dean cure Cas of his guilty conscience? Hurt/comforting Dean, mentally unstable/comforting Sam, and BAMF/hurt/comforting/guilty Castiel.
1. Fallen

**Summary:** A (mostly) human Castiel wakes up on the side of the road after setting the Leviathans loose. The angel soon realizes he's been sent back to Earth for a reason: Dean's being held captive by a group of vampires. But will saving Dean cure Cas of his guilty conscience? It's Sam and Cas to the rescue, with plenty of hurt! to go around. Hurt/comforting Dean, mentally unstable/comforting Sam, and BAMF/hurt/comforting/guilty Castiel. With some fluff thrown in later on. AU, takes place after 7.10.

 **Reparations**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Supernatural._ Darn.

 **Warning:** Torture…and the angel has some self-destructive tendencies in this one.

 **A/N:** This is my second _Supernatural_ fic. I just started watching this show in September, and originally I had grand ambitions of churning out a ficlet per season (there's soooo much material every other episode that it's crazy) but then this little angel character popped up and BAM I'm done with Season 9. How did THAT happen? Oh well. The show is just too addicting. Enjoy.

 **Chapter 1: Fallen**

The first thing he was aware of was the faintest touch of warmth on his face. It was soft—almost a caress—and it reminded him of his birth, a gentle calling through song and an emergence into light.

Castiel opened his eyes.

There was no light.

But there was rain.

What at first came down as delicately as mist on that night in late October then became a steady drizzle. Rain pelted the angel's face and cut into the corners of his eyes before it slid down his throat and through his sinuses, forcing out harsh coughs.

Castiel sat up slowly, cognizant of the heat his frame generated. The gravel underneath him still clung to the back of his beloved trench coat, slathered in mud and riddled with tears. His head ached, and when he brought a hand up, his left temple was tender and burned when he touched it. When he brought his hand away, the tips of his fingers revealed a dark combination of dirt and blood.

How had he fallen?

Or perhaps the better question was: What had he _done_?

Brief flashes of memory filtered through his mind as the angel sat in the ditch and listened to the rain fall around him. There was Crowley, the plan for Purgatory, the souls inside him. He unconsciously placed a hand around his stomach, remembering the rot of Leviathan lurking in the depths of his grace, corrupting him with their lust for power. Castiel swallowed back the taste of bitter bile, threatening to force its way out of his abdomen as the Leviathan had.

He had given the world's most evil monsters exactly what they had wanted all along—free reign over the earth.

It was worse than he had remembered.

So _why_ had he been sent back?

As Castiel relived the darkest moments of his existence, the falling rain drenched his hair, splattered off his face, and soaked his tattered clothes. The rain was almost so loud that it drowned out the voice quietly whispering in the recesses of his muddled mind.

 _Cas. Please, Cas. Please help me. Oh, God. It hurts. It hurts. Can you find me? I'm in hell. I'm back in hell. Oh, Cas…Please get here soon._

"Dean."

The spoken word temporarily broke through his melancholia. Some of his old power began to stir deep inside him, causing his back to arch. A few miles behind him there was a bright flash, and thunder rolled ominously. A few moments ago, the angel had almost been ready to lie back down and drown in his own give-up. Exhaustion covered him like a thick wool blanket. But now he had a purpose. Dean—his friend—needed help.

Flight never seemed so necessary than at that moment, yet Castiel's wings were useless—they may as well have been nonexistent. A slight burning sensation traveled up his back, and he shrugged reflexively.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the echo of energy that typically hummed inside him, but there was nothing.

Castiel paused. A faint arc of light sparked, emanating from his solar plexus, but then shorted out. The glow fled from his blue eyes as he opened them. His grace was blocked somehow. Meaning…

…He was human.

The rain let up for a moment, and he attempted to stand. When his legs reacted uselessly and sank stiffly in the clay-like mud beneath him, Castiel clung to the base of a dead sugar pine. He grasped its rough bark and heaved himself up, using it as a crutch when the world around him slid out of focus.

 _Purpose._ He had a purpose again. _Think._

The former angel blinked and concentrated on locating his surroundings. He was standing on the outskirts of a dense forest scented with leaves and decay. Directly in front of him was the muddy ditch he had fallen into, cradling the side of a road. He could tell by the sound of car engines zooming by and the intermittent flicker of headlights.

All he had to do was figure out where _here_ was.

Castiel took a few tentative steps toward the road, unsure how stable his legs were. Luckily, they held, although his knees shook beneath him. And there was another sensation. Along with the familiar sway of his trench coat, something tapped against his leg. Something in his pocket.

He pulled out his old cell phone. When and where he had last used it, he couldn't recall, but Castiel almost gave a cry of delight to find that it was fully charged, and the connection was strong (Dean had taught him an important lesson: no bars, no service).

 _Dean._ Remembering his friend's cries boosted his energy, and Castiel scrambled up the side of the ditch, hands flailing when he failed to find purchase on the crumbling combination of grit and gravel. Fleetingly—before he could even stop himself—the angel was praying.

 _Please let me help him. Let me reach him in time. I'm sorry—so very sorry…_

And whether his renewed strength was an act of divine intervention or not, Castiel found a foothold on volatile ground long enough to hoist himself out of the ditch. Crawling on all fours, he eventually made it to the damp concrete along the side of the highway. Directly in front of him, and across the road, was a giant rock face, jutting out of the hill. Moonlight trickled gracefully upon its surfaces and glimmered with leftover rain water.

Then a car's headlights cut through his tranquility , and Castiel backed further off the road as a reflex. In his fear, he nearly toppled over the edge and back into the ditch.

There was a fair amount of reason to his wariness. His shameless exhibition of pretending to be God had most likely made Jimmy Novak's face known to a majority of the country, maybe even the entire world. If anyone followed the nightly news, they would know better than to pick up men in trench coats by the side of the road unless they wanted to be smote.

What was he to do?

The answer arrived in a car sliding up alongside him. Headlights flickered on the blue sedan, and he could hear muffled music within—some kind of jazz. Castiel had heard the genre before and enjoyed its improvisations, even if Dean despised it.

The passenger side window buzzed and rolled down automatically. With a level of apprehension, the former angel stepped cautiously toward the vehicle and bent over to peer inside.

A man with a black beard sprinkled with grey, and a cheery face, beamed out at him. Castiel instantly noticed the silver cross dangling from his neck and drooping over his flannel button-up. He had the aura about him of a lesser-known St. Nicholas—but by the bags under his eyes, the angel inferred that this man had known his share of hardships.

"Wanna lift?" the man said, jovially enough—but there was also an edge of tiredness in his voice. It made Castiel wonder just how late at night it was. He would have to check his phone again.

"No—thank you," Castiel mumbled. He had considered the option, but it wouldn't make much difference where the man took him if it wasn't closer to Dean. And there was always the chance that this philanthropist's tired memory would begin to stir and recognize the former angel from the news programs—the sight of his leering face, coat smeared with blood, causing chaos and bloodshed wherever he went.

It was also because of Castiel's lack of grace—that pervading emptiness inside himself—that gave him pause. How could he possibly defend himself against the dangers of this mortal world? He was weaponless, without an army of fiery souls at his disposal. And without his working wings…

"You sure?" The man with the cross interrupted his dark thoughts. "It's pretty cold outside."

Castiel took a deep breath, and it began to rain again—thick droplets that ran in rivulets through his tousled black hair.

"Yes," said the ex-angel. "However, can you tell me where I am?"

The man squinted his eyes, perhaps trying to determine whether Castiel was in his right mind or not. Dean had given him the exact same face on countless occasions.

 _Dean._

"I-I was supposed to meet a friend, and I got lost…" Castiel cleared his throat and wiped rain out of his eyes. He always detested lying; it never came easily to him—even when the lies were relatively harmless to their recipient. "M-My car's parked nearby."

The man with the cross nodded his head, relaxing back into his seat. "No problem," he said with a smile. "You're about five miles south of Angels Camp, along Highway 49."

"Angels Camp? Thank you," said Castiel quickly. "I—I'll go back to my car now."

Why were the lies so difficult to say? _You didn't have a problem lying to Sam and Dean about Purgatory._

Castiel swallowed sickeningly as the man inside the sedan looked on expectantly.

"Well, can I give you a ride back to your car, at least? It's sure rainin' hard."

"No, you have been too kind," said the former angel.

"Don't mention it. I'm a pastor; it's my job to stop by the side of the road and talk to folks. Sometimes talk to God. I will pray that you find your way, son."

Castiel's eyes suddenly stung, and he had to blink back a combination of rainy mist and tears. Had he ever cried before? Not that he could remember. And yet, he felt himself crying because a stranger—who couldn't possibly benefit from his good will—cared about his destiny.

"Th-thank you," Castiel muttered.

With a knowing smile, the man rolled up the passenger window automatically, and his car pulled away.

A shiver instantly ran up and down Castiel's spine. In the falling rain, coming down in sheets now, he looked towards the sky.

 _I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to be saved._

And, for the first time in a long time, a voice answered back. Whether it was the voice of God, or his own conscience, the former angel didn't care.

 _No, you don't. But I gave you the phone for a reason. What are you going to do with it? Your choices define you, Castiel._

Castiel pulled the phone out of his pocket and dialed Sam's number.

* * *

Sam picked up on the second ring, and Castiel felt a twinge of relief slide across his back, ruffling his paralyzed wings.

"Sam?" he said, and he could barely choke the word out.

There was a breathless pause, and then Sam's incredulous and suspicious voice: "Cas?! Where are you? What happened?"

Castiel's thoughts were spinning somewhere in the back of his mind, and he thought he heard Dean scream in pain…

"I—I was sent back. I think I know why—"

"I was praying. Oh, Cas—I'm glad you're back!"

The ex-angel closed his eyes at the pitch of Sam's voice and the relief he heard in it. He had been afraid that Sam would hang up when he heard his voice.

"I never heard your prayers, Sam. I-I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

"It's probably because I wasn't praying to _you_ , Cas…" Sam's tone was almost guilty.

Castiel wanted to smack himself in the face. "Of course." _He was praying to God, you fool. You know, the Almighty, your dad? The one you tried to downsize and whose job you tried to steal._

"But that's not important right now. Where are you?"

Castiel explained, and Sam's shock was audible when he explained that he was only a few miles away from his position in California. The former angel wasn't surprised. He had been sent back for a reason, after all. Redemption wasn't a small thing, and it was the only thing keeping Castiel tied to the present.

It was like a dream—although Castiel had nothing to compare the experience—when Sam showed up in the Impala. Castiel slid into the passenger seat, and Sam took off at a pace usually reserved for his brother's driving.

Sam's brows were deeply creased in worry, and his eyes were shining in the darkness, but he managed to look over at Castiel and offer a small smile.

"I'm not sure you understand how glad I am to see you, Cas."

The ex-angel took a shallow breath, finding himself unable to look Sam directly in the eyes. He was unsure how much time had passed since their last meeting, but every memory was still fresh in his mind.

"Even after I broke the wall in your mind?"

Castiel could feel his body instinctively shift towards the car door as Sam's body visibly tensed at his words, but then he relaxed and shrugged.

"Well, I stabbed you in the back….So, do you think we're even?"

Castiel blinked, peering at Sam in confusion. It was such a _Dean_ thing to say that Sam's comment temporarily threw him off.

Sam continued. "Look, you weren't in your right mind. I know that now. And we don't blame you for what you did. I think Dean will be overjoyed to see you. And saving him right now is more important than mulling over the past. Agreed?"

Reluctantly, Castiel nodded. "Agreed. Do we know of Dean's location?"

Sam quickly explained their most recent hunt—a nest of vampires that had been crisscrossing and terrorizing parts of California for the past month. Dean had gone out on a tip and never came back.

"But I think I know where the nest is located, and Dean's probably there," said Sam. "Can you zap us into the middle of it and get Dean out quickly?"

 _Ah, yes. About that…_

"My… _zapping_ is currently out of order," Castiel said quietly.

Sam almost slammed the brakes on the car. He looked at the ex-angel with panic in his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"I no longer have my grace... At least, most of it."

Sam slumped slowly back in the driver's seat, realization taking over. "Great. Just great. There have gotta be at least twenty vamps in the nest, Cas. What are we gonna do?"

"Do you have any dead man's blood?"

"A little," said Sam.

Castiel placed a hand on his temple—it had begun to throb again.

"We are going to need all of it."

Rain on the windshield blurred with the light from street lamps and starred in bright bursts through Castiel's vision. Moaning, he doubled over, held back by his seatbelt. In the chaos of the vision, the former angel was unaware of Sam's worried cries beside him.

* * *

He was suddenly in a darkened room, thick with smoke and a mass of bodies. A dull pulse echoed around him, the bass beat of ear-splitting music. Red lights—like alarms—flashed and mirrored the beats until everything around him seemed to flow like blood, in tune to one heart.

Someone was snarling next to him, and there was a liquid running in his eyes. When the salty thickness caught in his lips, he spat it out beside him. There was the sound of raucous laughter and clinking of glasses—the smell of salt and liquor heavy in the air.

No, no, no. This was all too familiar. He was suddenly thrown back into the pit of hell, as if he had never left, and everything since his time there had been an illusion. There was the dripping gore, oozing from every nook and cranny, flooding every surface, and leaking from eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. There was the horror and terror of it when Alistair woke him up with a slice through his cheek and put him to bed with a needle through his spine. But it was even worse when he was on the other side of the knife. There was always the influx of souls—fresh ones every day, ripe for the bruising. He had never imagined how his own soul could have cracked in so many places from breaking others' and turning them into something…inhuman.

"Dean, sweetie, you have the _tastiest_ type."

The sound of a woman's voice drew Dean back to full consciousness. Through a haze, he glimpsed the carved stone statues built into the walls—demons grinning back at him, almost laughing at him as pain rippled across his frame again. This time, a dagger traced its way, agonizing and slow, across his chest.

Dean didn't give them the satisfaction of screaming this time. Besides, his voice was hoarse from the previous twenty-four hours.

And, God, why couldn't they just let him sleep?

Hot breath whispered into his ear, and he caught ruby lips from the corner of his eye.

"I'm beginning to think you like this."

Another bubble of high-pitched laughter, and another stream of blood ran down Dean's chest, staining his jeans a dark crimson. Although the room was stuffy and hot, he felt a chill run through him.

 _Shock. I'm going into shock._

When the female vamp swooped in for her next slice, she pressed her cheek up close to his. Her teeth were finely sharpened points, and her eyes were those of a wild animal's.

"C'mon, Dean," she crooned lustfully. "Give me a sign that you're still enjoying this as much as I am."

In one fluid movement, Dean kicked her legs out from under her and smashed his hiking boot heavily down on her left foot. Something snapped—whether it was bone or high heel, Dean didn't know and didn't really care. He spat blood again and smiled with satisfaction.

"How's that for starters, bitch?"

Instantly, a big burly male vamp helped the monster wearing lipstick into a nearby chair and roughly smacked Dean twice, hard, across the face.

Dean groaned, swallowing back the urge to throw up.

The female vamp was practically screaming—a shrill ear-splitting mewl.

"Can't we just _drink_ him already?"

A few of the other vampires in the vicinity muttered approvingly.

"Patience, Malady," came a smooth male voice from the back of the room. All of the vamps turned around to watch him, like loyal dogs following their master's every move.

Dean could feel his fear building.

 _Oh, shit. It's the Alpha._

"We don't want to _drink_ him until his baby brother is here to watch, do we? And won't Sam be surprised when we _turn_ Dean instead?"

 _Oh no. Oh_ hell _no._

Torture was one thing. So was being drained of all your precious bodily fluids. But being _turned_ was _not_ something Dean Winchester ever hoped to endure again.

The room was silent, save for the _thump thump_ of bass beats from the club.

"You've had your fun with him," came the voice of the Alpha Dean could only hear, but not see. "Let me play with him for a while."

Dean, protesting—howling with a strained voice—kicking, and screaming all the way, found himself being lifted (chair and all) to the darkest closet of the back room of his own private nightmare.

"NO!"

"Cas?!"

Castiel gasped, opening his eyes. He was slumped against the passenger window of the Impala, one shoulder pressed into the cold glass. It took him a few moments to recollect where he was until he saw Sam sitting beside him. The car was parked off the side of the road, its turn signal still flashing. Sam's face was a mixture of terror and concern, and Castiel felt a twinge of guilt for making the younger Winchester worry further.

"Cas—are you all right? What happened?"

"It was…Dean," Cas said gruffly, swallowing on a dry throat. "I saw him. I know where he is."

"Yeah. We're almost there," said Sam hastily. "But I had to stop when you went comatose on me."

"It was a…much stronger vision this time."

"Is Dean…Is he okay?"

Castiel was unsure how to answer Sam. Clearly Dean was _not_ okay, but the former angel decided it was wise to smooth over any roughness in the truth for now, until Dean was safe.

"He is alive. But the Alpha of this nest has him now. They—they mean to turn him, Sam. And force you to watch."

Sam's mouth went into a thin line, as he quickly squealed back onto the road, tires burning rubber.

"We'll save him, Cas. Don't worry."

Castiel would have found Sam's comfort amusing had he still had his grace, and had he not just witnessed the horror of the vampire nest. The sight of the place sickened him.

"Cas—you okay?"

The ex-angel didn't bother to nod. It would have been a lie anyway.

"The place where they're keeping Dean…It looked like…"

"Yeah," Sam said bitterly. "That's actually the name of the club."


	2. Hell

**Reparations**

 **Warnings:** Some gore and violence in this chapter.

 **A/N:** Thank you so much for the lovely reviews on the first chapter! BAMF Castiel is featured in today's. Just a side note, I'm not very knowledgeable about weapons, so forgive any obvious mistakes during the fight scenes in terms of hunting knives and whether they could remove heads, etc. Please let me know how I'm doing—comments and feedback are always appreciated. Enjoy!

 **Chapter 2: Hell**

When they pulled up in front of HELL, Castiel's anxiety ratcheted up a few notches, and Sam's face adopted that pinched look again.

It was a shadowy building that could have been transplanted straight out of a Bram Stoker novel. Although only one story, its walls ascended in black spires of the gothic variety, like shiny teeth stabbing into the sky. Adorning them were stone gargoyles, viciously spitting invisible venom and leering down at them as if to dare the unlikely duo: _Are you prepared to venture?_

Sam, reading Castiel's mind, muttered, "I've been to the _real_ Hell. This place can't be as bad."

The ex-angel had seen the _real_ place too, but that thought didn't make him eager to see it again. Waves of guilt washed over him a second time for his choices concerning Purgatory. There was a good chance that if he hadn't greedily taken all those souls (and unleashed Leviathan in the process) that he would have continued protecting the Winchesters—and he would have been able to save Dean from this situation.

After parking the car just around the corner of the block from the club, Sam got out of the Impala, and Castiel followed him. He hoped the plan would work. Sam kept telling him that the idea was straight out of _Return of the Jedi_ , but Castiel didn't understand the reference and didn't ask for Sam to clarify as long as they were successful and got Dean back. Besides, he didn't think he had much in common with a princess called "Leia."

The younger Winchester opened the trunk of the Impala and pulled out the equipment. The dart gun had four rounds, but Castiel planned on only needing two of them. Quickly and silently they filled the empty cases with drops of dead man's blood from a single jar Sam had on hand. Next, came the knives. Castiel stuck a large hunting knife underneath his open button-up shirt, and Sam pocketed a machete, along with his usual Taurus pistol.

When they were finished, Sam took a deep breath. "You ready?"

Castiel couldn't help but cock his head to the side when he caught his reflection in the back car window.

"What's wrong?"

"If someone in the club identifies me," said Castiel, "it will sabotage the entire rescue."

Sam almost burst out laughing. "Since when are you concerned about blending in? You _must_ be human."

His words, although biting, created a small glow of pride to ignite inside the ex-angel, and he felt himself stand a bit taller.

Sam rummaged through a few suitcases in the back. "All right. You have a point. Here—take one of Dean's jackets."

Castiel gently removed his dirty tie and trench coat, now nearly dry from the earlier downpour, tossing them in the back seat, and then sliding on the smooth black leather jacket Sam handed him.

Although it was too big in the shoulders, and felt cool to the touch, Castiel immediately felt better and at home in it. Perhaps because the jacket smelled like Dean—the sweet tang of grease and whiskey combined with gunpowder. Castiel sighed within the coat, running his fingers over the middle zipper reverently. So what if it was too big? It hid the dart gun and knife very effectively.

A tiny repressed chuckle disturbed Castiel's reverie. He spun around to find Sam looking down at him endearingly.

"What?" the former angel grumbled.

"Nothing. It's just that your whole body language changed when you put that on… It's like you transformed from a choirboy to a member of the Jets."

Castiel blinked uncomprehendingly.

" _West Side Story?"_

Another blink.

Sam slammed the trunk closed. "Never mind. It's a musical—my favorite, actually. But don't tell Dean or he'd smack me, or disown me, or both."

"Why would Dean refuse to acknowledge you as his brother because of a musical?" Castiel asked as they began walking to the club.

"Because the entire play features guys dancing around, wearing tight pants, bursting into song, and…" Sam's voice dwindled away. "You know what? Just...never mind."

The pair continued walking in silence. When they reached the corner of the block, Sam stopped and nodded to the ex-angel.

"Good luck," he said.

"To you as well," said Castiel and took a left on the sidewalk until he was standing in front of HELL. The bass beats he had heard in his vision of Dean were audible from outside.

Once he opened the door to the club, a waft of hot hair greeted him, and a dark and dingy flight of stairs enticed him to go _down, down, down._ Castiel shuffled down the steps warily, the air getting hotter the further he descended.

At once, his view of the place was blocked by a gigantic burly man—one of _them,_ Castiel thought—but his senses were instantly overwhelmed by blaring music and flashing red lights. He swallowed thickly, barely able to make out the features on the face of the bouncer in front of him. Before he allowed himself to feel fear, Castiel shoved his fists into his jacket pockets and forced his mouth into a straight line—trying his best to mimic Dean's "poker-face." It was a look Dean had once tried to teach Castiel, and the human had failed miserably.

The bouncer's dark beady eyes looked him up and down, then he growled, "C'mon in."

Castiel averted his eyes from the bouncer, remaining expressionless, and stepped into HELL.

A mass of bodies swayed in the darkness before him. The center of the club was carved into some kind of pit where people slowly moved down via wide stairs as they danced. The rhythm of the music was hypnotic and overpowering; Castiel could feel the bass reverberating in his chest, forcing his heart to beat in time with it.

And the _heat._ Real fire pits erupted periodically in the club's four corners, and the smell of sweat and liquor almost made the former angel gag. The bar stretched along the wall to his left, and the bartenders wore black suits. The waitresses had…

Castiel swallowed as one of them walked by him and winked at him seductively.

They had black eyes.

Castiel was fairly sure humans couldn't have black eyes, but he vaguely remembered Sam mentioning small lenses called "contacts," and he hoped that was the explanation for the eye color, because he certainly sensed no demons in the establishment.

However, there _were_ eight vampires.

Castiel could practically smell their presence in the room, and although he lacked a substantial amount of his grace, angel instincts never went away.

Eight vampires. He was hoping there would be more in the main section of the club, but it would have to do. Castiel shot a fleeting glance at a door in the back and knew that Dean had been behind it only minutes ago.

He had to get to work. Castiel quickly went to the bar and ordered a double whiskey—Dean's favorite. He paid with the cash Sam had given him and sipped at the drink.

According to the plan, he didn't have to wait long.

"You look like a captain without his ship," came a purring voice in his ear.

He looked up at a young woman with dark brown eyes and long flowing hair that matched. Her sparkling red fingernails were mini flames that gripped the sides of the bar. Castiel could almost feel them raking across his skin, caressing his face, digging deeper into the flesh. He had seen her through Dean's eyes.

She was looking at him the way a lion might eye a gazelle. Castiel had almost no experience with human females and even less with female vampires. He could sense his normal social curiosity begin to show through in quiet detachment, but he forced himself not to give away his true nature.

 _What would Dean do? Channel Dean._

"What are you?" he asked gruffly. "A pirate?"

She stifled a laugh (he must have said the right thing!) and smoothed down the front of her short black leather skirt. "No, but your eyes remind me of the ocean."

Lousy pick-up line aside, Castiel forced a smile. He was certain it came out looking like a grimace, but he was inexperienced in the art of cheesy come-ons.

 _Dean. What would Dean do if he wanted to flirt with this woman?_

"Well, it's a good thing I found _you."_ He spoke calmly, evenly.

She chuckled as Castiel turned to face the bar again. He was familiar with the term "hard to get." Dean had taught him once that it was the easiest way to "score chicks." Because the more you act diffident, the more they want to get in your—

"Bad day, honey?" she shouted at him over the loud music.

Castiel shrugged, and even though it seemed effortless, he had to physically force his shoulders up and down. In heaven, the gesture was irrelevant. Uncertainty was an invention of Lucifer and perfected by Man…

"Bad _life,"_ he found himself saying and then realized that he almost believed it. Castiel stared suspiciously into his glass and wished he hadn't ordered a double. His newly human stomach was completely empty—and the first thing he swallowed was alcohol? _Really smart._

"Drink up," she said with a tooth-filled smile, like razors. "I'll help you forget about it."

 _I did it. I actually did it._ Castiel's mind whirled in shock as he downed his drink, wincing as the whiskey burned his throat and trickled down into his belly.

Maybe this plan was going to work after all.

He let the vampire lead him, taking him by the hand, and drift from the bar towards the dancing. Castiel recalled the vision when Dean had stabbed her foot in an act of defiance, but if she had been injured, the vampire didn't show it. Her candy apple high heels sparkled in the flashing lights, pointing the way towards the pack of people. Perhaps lust for blood trumped pain. Castiel's vision swirled dizzily as she pulled him into the mass of hot and sweaty bodies, swaying together with the throb of every beat.

As they descended into the shallow pit, Castiel was conscious of the monsters around him. The other eight vampires all danced close to their chosen human targets. In another moment of clarity, Castiel realized that these humans were their intended victims—plucked from the masses to be plied with liquor, danced until spent, and ultimately drained of blood.

The vampire—What was her name?—pressed into him, and Castiel swallowed back thick bile, wishing that his head would stop swimming.

"Name's Malady," she cooed at him.

"Cas," he grunted, which only made her laugh even more at his laconic behavior.

He took a deep breath, trying to focus. _It's all right. Let her think that she's taking advantage of you._ Castiel ran a hand through her dark brown hair, careful not to let her too close, or she might press against the knife and dart gun.

"C'mon," she crooned, the spice of blood in his nostrils from her breath. "Let me in."

Castiel allowed his eyes to flutter, and he could still see Malady swinging through his eyelids. Hypnotically, he moved in time to the beat and felt brief bliss in losing himself only the way a human can.

Then she took his hand, squeezing it.

"Do you want to feel amazing?" Her dark eyes flashed, daring him.

"I already do." This lying business was getting easier. Although, maybe it wasn't really a lie. In a secret space of his heart, Castiel was enjoying this.

 _Like Dean might have enjoyed this_ , he thought. _Before the trap._

A giggle. "You want to feel even _more_ amazing?"

Castiel tried to imagine what the average human male might guess was going to happen: drugs, sex, or a combination of both. The former angel _knew_ what was going to happen, but a piece of himself was still eager to join her. And it wasn't because Malady embodied seduction.; it was because she was going to lead him straight to Dean.

"Sure," he said, attempting a crooked smile.

Beaming, she steered him up, through the pit of dancers and pulsing red lights. They were nearing the back of the club when a fire alarm shrieked.

Castiel halted, pulling Malady back. There were a few screams as the music abruptly stopped, and dazed dancers began quickly filing out—exiting to the doors leading up the stairs and out of the club.

Sam's timing had been perfect.

As the regulars dispersed, Castiel watched all eight vampires—male and female—dash desperately after their prey, some following them, others pleading them to come back. But the humans were gone, and the vampires went outside.

Somewhere, Sam was hiding in the club. Soon, the younger Winchester would lock the doors or barricade them shut.

Castiel turned back to Malady. Remembering to play his part wasn't difficult. Sirens meant trouble. He took her hand and made a move towards the ascending stairs, but she tugged him back.

"This way," he said, insistent.

Malady looked completely unfazed. And why shouldn't she? Her victim hadn't flown out the door; he was still standing right beside her.

"I know a back exit," she said. "It's closer."

Adding some reluctance to his step, Castiel let Malady guide him to the back, through the doors…

…and into the gothic bar where Dean had been tortured. Was that blood on the floor? Castiel cringed when he saw the demon figures carved into the walls. Behind them, the alarm still shrilly wailed.

Malady sat herself at the bar, tended by another vampire. He was young and skinny, with an unusual hairstyle. Castiel struggled for the word to describe it that Dean had taught him. Mohawk.

"What's the scoop, Jake?" Malady asked.

Jake shrugged. "Probably some tweaker got scared of the flames again. It'll stop soon; CJ's fixin' it."

And, just like that, the bell ceased. Castiel still heard a ringing in his ear, whether from the alarms or the loud music, he wasn't sure.

"Where…" He cleared his throat. "Where are we?"

Castiel didn't have much time to get a quick plan going. The smaller back bar was crawling with vampires—a dozen at least. They were sitting at tables, playing pool, and carousing with each other in groups of two or three. The ex-angel had hoped that there would be fewer, but he had to adapt to the fact of there being more. At the same time that he was scoping out the room, he was also acutely aware of a dozen pairs of eyes checking _him_ out, nostrils flared, and _hungry._

 _They can smell my blood, my soul, my humanity._

And while extremely frightened by this realization, it made Castiel smile inwardly too.

"Who's the biker?" the bartender shot at Malady coyly.

"Cas," she answered.

"Share 'em with me?"

Castiel's eyebrows shot up at that comment.

Malady laughed darkly. "Sorry, Jake. He's all mine."

She ordered a drink for him, and Castiel wondered how much time he had before she pounced. If Malady had made her claim on him, the others weren't likely to attack, but if they got too ravenous…

He sat down next to her hesitantly, sipping at his drink. If she didn't begin soon, Castiel would have to make the first move. Dean's time was running out.

 _Dean…_

Castiel's eyes flashed towards the door on his right; the black door was adorned with a stuffed raven above a bust—perhaps Pallas? Dean was behind that door, bloody, in pain, and praying to Castiel to save him.

The ex-angel could feel his heart pounding with an invigorating rhythm; it was a nervousness he hoped to hide from Malady as she stroked his right hand compulsively, fawning over him.

"So…What now?" Castiel smiled nervously. Imitating Dean was getting easier. Maybe wearing the leather jacket was the key.

She cradled his chin in her hand. "We kiss, and then the magic happens."

Castiel's heart skipped a beat when he prepared himself. This was it. His left hand snaked towards his inner jacket pocket.

"Your blood," she whispered heavily into his ear. "I can hear it running through your veins."

"You want some of my blood?" he whispered back.

"Yes," she said, moaning softly.

"My pleasure," Castiel muttered and jammed a syringe of dead man's blood into Malady's neck. She whimpered as he pulled her now limp head away from his. Her pupils were slowly dilating, a confused expression frozen on her face, as if betrayal was something she had never experienced before, and certainly hadn't expected from _him._

"I enjoyed our dance together," Castiel said as Malady slumped forward over the bar. Jake was frozen in place, and Castiel could feel eleven pairs of eyes automatically train on him.

"Who's next?"

Jake growled fiercely and leapt over the bar, but he didn't get further than Malady's body before Castiel pulled out the dart gun. A shot to his shoulder sent the vampire down, flailing desperately.

There were several shouts as a wave of beasts came rushing at him all at once. This is what Castiel had been afraid of—being surrounded.

Where was Sam?

He flung himself over the bar, ducking behind the solid oak, and fired three more shots; all of them hit their targets, and the vamps went down with pincer-like teeth still snapping.

Seven to go…

Castiel pulled out his knife without his next victim seeing it in time. He partially severed the head, and it hung off the corpse as the body dropped. The ex-angel was beginning to think that he just might win this battle when a female vampire with flowing blonde hair picked him up by his collar from behind the bar and flung him towards the far wall. Castiel crashed into a table, overturning it, and bumping his head on a toppled chair. He felt his body groan unpleasantly, and he shook black stars from his vision before standing up.

Another roar in his ears, and Castiel felt a stunning blow to his right cheekbone. Although he faltered, Castiel quickly regained his balance and counter-attacked, slicing his assailant's head off like a bread knife through butter, blonde hair smeared with dark blood.

Five to go…

They were all men—big and brawny, with glowing red eyes and needle-sharp teeth. Maybe they were wondering why this strange man had come to attack them. Why would a single hunter face a dozen hungry vampires alone unless he was suicidal? Or perhaps they didn't care anymore and were just out for his blood.

As one attacked, the other four looked on. Castiel's aim was thrown off, and he only managed to graze his aggressor before another vamp was at his back.

Castiel raised his hunting knife, slicing off another head before being whirled around, and he felt a white hot pain by his left collar bone.

The vamp had a knife and pulled the ex-angel into him until he could smell his rotting breath through the stench of blood in the air.

"Your friend is going to die," the vamp chuckled, tattoos covering his face. "Right in front of you. It's the last thing you're going to see before we turn you."

With a sneer, the vampire took his blade and twisted it deeper into Castiel's shoulder before cutting a jagged mark downward. The former angel could not prevent himself from crying out in agony before sheer rage filtered through his system, and he punched the tattooed vampire in the jaw before smoothly removing his head from his shoulders.

Pure anger flooded his veins, and Castiel saw red. His memory flashed images of hurt Dean—helpless Dean—through his vision, and Castiel quickened his pace. He wasn't even aware as he picked up the knife and flew at the remaining three monsters. A growl escaped his throat as he flung himself at the creatures, hacking, punching, and clawing his way through their iron grips.

It was over in a matter of seconds. Yet another head (this one's neck a jagged line) was sent rolling along the black carpet, and that is when Castiel noticed the door to the small room in the back was _open._ Leaning casually against its black frame was the slick blonde-haired vampire from Dean's mind. He had the fashion sense of Crowley and the self-aware smile of Lucifer, but he was in a league of his own.

He was an Alpha.

"You must enjoy suffering," he said.

All it took was a split second of distraction, and Castiel felt a blow to his head that sent him smashing into another table, aggravating the bruises already beginning to cover his body. The blow knocked the weapon from his hands, and before he could recover, the two remaining vampires had hauled him to a standing position with his hands pinned behind his back.

Castiel groaned in frustration as he struggled against the beasts' grasps, but it was no use. A small trickle of blood wound down his forehead and paused at his cheek.

The Alpha meandered easily over to the trio, heaving with sweat and alive with vengeful anger. Mostly easy-going and gentle-natured, Castiel suddenly feared he was turning into a crazed wild man. He wasn't used to these new emotions and how they overthrew his rational thought.

 _Calm down_ , he thought to himself. _You can't help Dean if you're dead._

Now the Alpha was right in front of him, bending over slightly because he was almost as tall as Sam. His blue eyes mirrored Castiel's, swimming slightly as he ran an index finger down the ex-angel's cheek. It smeared in the blood, like a child playing with finger paints, and he brought the red to his lips, sucking on it like he had just tested a pot of soup for balanced seasoning.

Castiel's heart beat so fast he could hear it in his ears.

The Alpha smirked. "Bring him to my office."

 **To be continued…**


	3. Heaven

**Reparations**

 **Warning:** Violence, gore.

 **A/N:** I got the idea of the neighboring nightclubs in this chapter from a post I read less than a year ago about these two clubs that once existed in Montmartre. One was called "Caberet L'Enfer," and the other called "Le Ciel." I definitely recommend checking the history of these clubs out—and the pictures are absolutely fantastic. When I saw them, I immediately thought of Supernatural and knew I had to use the idea in a fic. Other stuff to look forward to in this chapter—Dean (finally)! Thank you so much for the reviews, and let me know how I'm doing. Enjoy!

 **Chapter 3: Heaven**

The vampires shuffled Castiel towards the back. The former angel could feel the blood from his wound seeping lethargically through his undershirt, blossoming in a red stain underneath Dean's jacket.

Again, he thought frantically: _Where is Sam?_

The stuffed raven passed above their heads as Castiel entered the small room at the heart of the vampire's nest, and he choked back the urge to vomit.

Dean was strapped to a chair in the center of the dark room. A handful of waxy yellow candles flickered eerily over the dips and cuts on his face. The man's eyes were either closed or swollen shut—Castiel couldn't tell—and Dean's restraints were so tight that his hands were turning a mottled shade of violet.

"Dean!" Castiel's strangled cry escaped from his lips before he could prevent himself.

At least, he assumed it was Dean. The man's face was nearly unrecognizable from the beatings, and his shoulders were slumped, defeated. He stirred slightly at the sound of his name, but that was the extent of Dean's movement.

All of this broke Castiel's newly-formed heart.

 _Your fault it's your fault your fault that this happened._

The words screamed inside him as the Alpha blocked Castiel's sight of the older Winchester.

"So…Cas. Assuming that _is_ your name…I'm very curious to know your connection to Mr. Dean Winchester."

Castiel grit his teeth, working against his captors in vain.

"You can't be his brother… We're actively looking for Sam… So that would leave you as his…What? Body guard? BFF? Boyfriend?"

The Alpha took an impromptu punch at Dean's face, turning it sideways with a smack, the sound of a fist meeting a slab of meat. Dean groaned softly, and Castiel spat ferociously at the Alpha.

"Leave him alone! Do you hear me? LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

The Alpha licked the blood from his hands daintily, tittering. His eyes widened. "So— _boyfriend_ it is. But—how _rude—_ I haven't introduced myself!"

His eyes glimmered opaquely as he stepped around Dean's body, offering a hand he knew Castiel couldn't (and wouldn't) take.

"My name is Dario. As you've probably guessed, I'm the leader of this little operation. But since you've killed so many of my pack, I think we might have to make a few new additions…"

Castiel's stomach lurched as Dario knelt beside Dean and began untying him. Dean's eyes were still closed, and he gave no indication that he was cognizant of what was going on.

"I was going to turn this pathetic creature so that he would destroy his brother, as retribution for what they did to the All Mother. But now I'm starting to formulate a sweeter plan: turn both of them and have them watch as I drink _you._ "

Dario stopped untying Dean and approached Castiel, almost shyly. "Your blood is…different. It's…sweeter than any I've tasted before."

Castiel writhed under the Alpha's touch and spat in his face when his hands strayed downwards…

The two vampires holding him drew Castiel back at his defiance, and Dario wiped spit off his chin, the smile erased from his sharp features. Now there was only hatred—pure, cold, and dangerous.

Decisively, with a malicious glint in his eyes, the alpha plunged a hand into the knife cut by Castiel's shoulder.

The former angel hissed but avoided giving Dario the pleasure of crying out. When the Alpha had satisfied himself by digging deep into the wound, he extracted his hand, now covered in blood, and began licking it off, starting with the tips of his fingers.

Castiel blinked back dizziness and the nausea rising up inside throat again. Instead, he focused on the anger he felt when Dean moaned again in front of him, shifting in his seat, his feet sliding in his own blood. Despite the frayed flesh and oozing from his mangled shoulder, Castiel surged against the goons holding him back and nearly sent them to their knees.

Then the Alpha took a clump of his hair, jerking Castiel's neck back to allow the guards to regain their hold on him.

"Temper, temper, my sweet," said Dario softly, but there was a hint of fear behind his sickening endearments now. It was as if he Alpha could sense he used to be an angel, as if he could peel back the human layers and reveal the wings that used to work properly, black and fearsome when fully outstretched.

Dario sucked on the edge of his thumb, a red smear of blood between his teeth, but it was part of a precursor he was formulating quickly in his mind.

"This one's special, boys. Yes, this one's blood may be enough to sustain all of us for some time. But he's a warrior. Can't you see?"

His question fell on disinterested ears; the two vampire stooges stared at their leader dumbly, shuffling their feet.

"Never mind," Dario snapped. "I've dealt with older souls than you before."

Castiel almost coughed at the irony of the Alpha's statement. If only the vampire knew that his was the youngest soul in many miles.

"We'll see how much fight you've got once I've drained you a couple more pints."

Castiel gasped without being aware of it. For an instant, he saw into the future—a particular branch of its many endless timelines and permutations. He saw himself, weak and cold, help captive in a corner of HELL. The club, of course. Dean was there—and Sam too—both sharp-toothed and ready to feed.

Dario chuckled loudly and then spread his hands along Castiel's shoulders. His teeth stood out like fine needles as he began to pierce the ex-angel's neck—

And then the door burst open behind him. Castiel didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. One of the guards at his side rushed to the floor, his head cleanly severed with a machete's blade.

"Sam!"

Flame burned in Dario's eyes as Castiel wriggled free, face to face with the younger Winchester, head nearly touching the ceiling in the small office. Castiel examined Sam in a split second and saw that the human was breathless, yet unharmed.

"Sorry!" gasped Sam with a flick of his head. "Got sidetracked!"

Then Sam tossed Castiel his lost hunting knife, and the two went to work.

Light from the candles flickered erratically, and the four plunged into a fierce brawl. Sometime during the scuffle, Dean's chair was knocked over, and the older Winchester fell along with it, groaning as he went down. Castiel winced and stabbed his blade into the Alpha's side when Sam was pressed against a bookcase.

Dario produced a long dagger, elegant and cruel in its curve. Castiel bit back the agony radiating from his shoulder to focus all of his attention on the Alpha's only standing guard. Within three minutes, it was all over.

Castiel wiped blood spray out of his face and kicked the ogre-like head out of his path to Sam.

"I really wouldn't come any closer," came Dario's melodic voice, playful, with an undercurrent of murder.

The former angel froze. Directly in front of him Dario held Sam to his chest, blade spread over and lightly cutting into the man's neck. Triumph twitched across his Puck-ish features, and Castiel felt numb. All of his acting and anger—his being sent back to Earth—was for nothing. Why must he fail again?

Swallowing dryly, Castiel dropped his knife. As it clattered to the floor, he realized that surrendering would do Sam no good. Dario was going to kill him, or turn him, in front of Castiel's eyes, and there was absolutely nothing a fragile human like himself could do.

Sam briefly locked eyes with Castiel, shining with fear, but there was something else in them too. Was it forgiveness…or reassurance?

Castiel shook his head. "Sam…I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be," said Dario, brushing a lock of dark hair out of Sam's forehead. "I'm going to thoroughly enjoy this."

Castiel closed his eyes, nausea overwhelming him.

Then: "Ditto."

 _Dean?_

His eyes opened with a flash as a red line seemed to magically trace across Dario's neck. In a split-second, the Alpha's blonde head toppled over, replaced with the older Winchester holding Sam's machete steadily.

Sam gasped in a strangled breath as the Alpha's small sword fell away with the rest of his torso. The three of them were left in a circle, facing each other.

Castiel realized his mouth was hanging open and consciously closed it. Sam let out a breath, still massaging his bruised neck. Dean beamed at them cheesily, even though his eyes were swollen shut, and his teeth were covered in blood.

"Dean!" Sam gaped. "I thought you were only going to be gone a half hour…What were you _thinking_ taking on the whole nest by yourself?"

His older brother swayed slightly where he stood. "Originally, I was going out to get some pie. But then I got a tip and…"

"And you were kidnapped and tortured by a dozen vengeful vampires," Castiel finished, pressing a hand to his aching shoulder.

Dean looked up blearily at the angel, as if noticing he was there for the first time. The corners of his mouth drew up in a small smile. "Cas? We… We thought you were dead."

Castiel said softly, "I came back to save you."

At that moment, Dean's legs chose to give out, and he pitched forward into Castiel's flailing arms. Had it not been for Sam's sudden assistance, Castiel would have hit the floor with the weight of the larger man.

"Easy, Dean…Oh, God, Cas… He looks bad."

Sam's face was drawn and pale again as Dean opened his eyes wearily, his voice far away.

"Does this mean we can't get pie?"

Loud shouts caught their attention. Although partly muffled from the thick walls, Castiel could tell they were close by.

"We can't get out of here the way we came in," said Sam quickly. "I blocked all the doors from the club to this room, but the other eight will eventually find a way in."

"What do you propose?" Castiel asked, cradling Dean's head beneath him, worry shocking him when he saw his friend's eyes close.

Sam moved to the bookshelf behind the late Alpha's large oak desk. Feeling along its sides, he found a lever and turned it, causing something to _click_ , and the bookshelf swung open. It revealed a gold door, a panel of buttons on its right hand side.

"An elevator," Sam whispered in awe.

 _Well,_ that's _convenient._

The shouts behind the door grew louder and more urgent. Castiel winced, imagining the returning vampires' reactions when they found the back bar strewn with blood and corpses that had once been their family.

"I believe going _up_ would be helpful," said Castiel, remembering that the club was underground.

Sam pushed the button marked "3," and the golden doors before them parted soundlessly.

Castiel grunted for aid, and Sam quickly flung one of Dean's arms over his shoulder. Castiel picked up the remaining assorted weapons from the floor, including the Alpha's dagger, and the three hobbled into the pristine elevator as the shouts behind them turned into vicious growls. Something was scratching at the door to the office…

Then the doors to the elevator closed.

There was a whir of electricity, and Castiel felt the slight weightlessness he usually experienced in one of the human's strange inventions for traversing floors faster than climbing stairs. Some elevators he had previously experienced were dark, smelly, and painfully slow. Sam and Dean must have realized how excruciating the wait was for an angel who was used to flying great distances in a manner of seconds.

This elevator, however, appeared relatively new. It was clean, with white and gold-plated walls. Castiel immediately felt a soft breeze on his face and realized that the temperature was controlled, and the air was being regulated. It was also relatively quick. In a matter of seconds, the doors in front of them parted with a _ding,_ and they were looking down a long white hallway.

Sam exchanged an uneasy glance with Castiel, and they carefully shuffled Dean along with them. The elevator doors _whooshed_ close behind them, and they were on their own.

It was completely silent, save for a faint pulse, which Castiel assumed was either the hum of electricity or music from another part of the building. Then Castiel realized another sound was missing that he had heard mere seconds before—Dean's labored breathing.

"Dean, do you think you can walk?" Sam asked without looking down. When he received no response, he turned his attention to his brother.

"Dean!"

Castiel slowly helped Sam lower him to the floor. Caked blood covered his arms, and for the first time, the ex-angel realized the older Winchester was only wearing a thin white undershirt and mangled jeans. Rips and stains had ruined the clothing beyond recognition so that it blended into the dappled red tint of his flesh. His eyes were partway closed, and Castiel feared the worst.

"Dean." Pure panic existed in Sam's tone now. He drew a palm over his brother's mouth and felt for a pulse along his wrist. "He's breathing," came Sam's relieved sigh. "He's breathing."

Castiel knew that they had to get out of this building as soon as possible. As far as they knew, another dozen vampires could be behind the next door they opened. Sam was practically overcome with worry for his sibling, and Dean wouldn't last much longer if they didn't _go now._

"Sam—you'll have to carry him," Castiel said, showing the younger Winchester his knife as he pulled it from his jacket. "I'll lead the way in case we get attacked. If that _does_ happen, take Dean and run. I'll hold them off."

The younger Winchester nodded solemnly. Gently, Sam hoisted Dean in his arms. It frightened both the former angel and Sam that Dean uttered no protestations as he was lifted; his eyes remained closed.

Swiftly, yet cautiously, they moved down the silent hallway. Like the elevator, it was pristine, and its air was carefully regulated. Castiel could only think to compare it to a hospital, but it was even cleaner than a hospital. The walls were painted a pure white. It was all very surreal—such a stark contrast from the dingy grime and darkness of the HELL club.

Castiel readied his knife as they approached a door at the end of the hallway. Sam gave him a brief nod, worriedly turning his attention to the noiseless Dean.

But there were no vampires when Castiel opened the door in front of him, just another hallway. They kept walking. As they moved forward, Castiel couldn't help but notice the pulse he had heard earlier was growing louder, and it had a tone.

More music?

Castiel flicked his gaze towards Dean.

"How is he?" he muttered to Sam.

Sam's scared voice was barely audible. "He's shaking."

Then—the click of a door caught their attention. At the far end, a woman with long brown hair appeared, wearing a short silver dress. She was moving so quickly that she didn't see them before she slipped into another door on her left.

The trio stealthily headed to the end of the hall. To Castiel's surprise, the door the brunette had entered was marked WOMEN. The one to its right was labeled MEN.

Wordlessly, Sam motioned to the door ahead of them where the pulsing music came from. Castiel pushed it open, and the three huddled together in shocked silence.

It was another club. But where HELL had been dark, fiery, musty, and filled with the kinds of people seeking all the secret sins of the world, this club was open and devoid of shadow. The walls were whitewashed and practically glowed with multi-colored lights spinning from the ceiling. The people dancing were clean-cut and gorgeous, as if they had been plucked from magazines Castiel had sometimes browsed through in convenience stores. The waiters and waitresses were equally beautiful and wore silver wings on the backs of their ruffled white shirts while serving cocktails. The music was light—Sam would have recognized it as electronica—and everyone's faces were painted with elegant smiles.

Sam scoffed beside him. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

Castiel immediately turned around and threw up by the door they had just come through, his new stomach expelling the whiskey he had consumed earlier, along with a copious amount of yellow bile. He leaned against the wall, waiting for the sudden wave of dizziness to subside. When he began to straighten, there was a twinge along his back. The pain emanated from where his dead wings rested along his shoulder blades.

"Cas?" Sam's hand touched his arm, bringing him back to the real world.

The ex-angel turned around slowly to meet all of the current club's occupants staring at the three strangers. When Castiel heard Dean's moan, he realized that the music in the club had been cut abruptly. Compared to the club's patrons, he realized how awfully the three stood out. Castiel pocketed his hunting knife quickly.

Sam, mercifully, was a fast thinker. "Just got lost…We…uh…Is there an exit?"

None of the people moved, save for one angelic waitress. She indicated an elevator on their far left, her eyes wide.

 _Please let this be the last door,_ Castiel thought.

Quickly, they ran to the elevator—gold gilded with decorative cherubim floating upwards. Sam pushed a button, and Castiel's gaze follow the seraphim all the way up to the rounded ceiling of the club painted in the rococo style, with such man-made grandeur and majesty he had not glimpsed since the construction of the Sistine Chapel.

"Cas!"

He blinked as Sam pulled him by the collar into the elevator, and they descended.

Sam grimaced—evidently Dean was heavier than he looked—and shifted his brother in his arms to get a better grasp. Then he turned an uncertain eye on the ex-angel.

"Y'all right?"

Castiel stirred, still in a daze after their walk through the clouds.

"Y-Yes," he stammered.

"Your shoulder okay?"

Castiel had almost forgotten about the knife injury, but now that the pain in his back had subsided, he could feel the dull ache of the other wound.

"It has stopped bleeding," he said truthfully.

Sam nodded.

In a few seconds, the doors parted to a chilly breeze from outside. They found themselves on the same sidewalk as HELL, and when Castiel and Sam turned around, they saw another nightclub immediately next to it that they had not noticed before. There was a good reason; HEAVEN was built like a cathedral on the outside, with towering spires and stained glass that glowed brightly, a beacon in the darkness.

Castiel shivered; Dean shivered more.

"Shit—we gotta go and get him warm," said Sam, beginning to scramble down the street and around the block, Dean firmly locked in his embrace. Castiel followed numbly behind them.

The Impala was parked where Sam left it. First, the younger Winchester opened the back door and slid Dean gingerly inside. Next, he dug through the trunk, pulling out a kit, extra bandages, a blanket, and a bottle of water.

"Get in the back seat!" he snapped uncharacteristically at the ex-angel.

"Uh…I…" Castiel wasn't sure what Sam wanted him to do.

"Dean's going into shock, and I'm the only one who can drive and get us as far away from this place as possible. Which means _you're_ the one who's gonna patch him up… Now!"

Sam practically made him jump. Castiel remembered one other time he had seen a similar look on Sam's face; it had been when Alastair nearly killed Dean, and Sam used his demon blood-induced powers to crush the life out of the evil fiend.

It had not been a pleasant look.

Castiel did as he was told, wincing at the movement of stooping over to squeeze into the back seat. Filled with Dean's supine form, it was quite cramped.

Suddenly Sam thrust an armful of supplies into his lap and hopped into the front seat. There was a squeal of tires after the engine revved, and they were off.

Castiel wriggled to make both himself and Dean more comfortable with the limited space of the back seat. Eventually, Dean's upper half rested in his lap; it was much easier to administer the bandages and ointment that way.

"Make sure he drinks some water," barked Sam from the back. "Leave the bigger cuts for me to stitch up later."

"All right," said Castiel softly. He honestly had no idea how to care for a human. The sight of Dean so beaten and helpless made him instinctively touch the center of the man's forehead to heal him. But, of course, nothing happened.

Castiel paused for a moment; his dead wings quivered. He took a deep breath.

 _Come on. This is no time to feel sorry for yourself._

So Castiel began the lengthy process of caring for Dean Winchester. He dabbed ointment on any raw surface, anti-bacterial cream on all cuts, and wrapped bandages around the multiple slices along Dean's torso and arms. There was not much he could do for the older Winchester's face, save for applying iodine to the visual abrasions and placing a cool compress along his horribly bruised jaw. Dean moaned and shifted slightly in his arms.

"Shh," Castiel whispered. "You will be well." And he hoped it was true.

Nearly an hour passed, and Castiel finally finished caring for the first man he ever wrenched from hell. That was when Dean opened his eyes.

"Cas?" His voice was hoarse and confused.

"I am here," said the former angel. "Do you require water?"

Dean nodded weakly. "Where's Sam?"

"I'm right here, Dean," said his brother from the front seat. "We're heading back to Bobby's cabin. Cas—give him some Tylenol. It's in the first aid kit."

Castiel complied and tilted Dean's head a few degrees so that he could drink water, placing two pills in his mouth as well.

When Dean leaned back, he had a familiar snarky glint in his eyes, but instead of offering a sarcastic comment, he began shivering furiously.

"Dean?" Castiel leaned in, concerned. "Are you all right?"

Dean chattered, "C-cold."

Instantly, Castiel took his discarded trench coat and carefully slipped Dean inside it, buttoning and wrapping it around his form. Then Castiel took the extra blanket Sam had given him and wrapped it around Dean's legs.

"Is that my jacket?" muttered Dean, confused.

The former angel ignored him. "Rest," he said softly.

And, surprisingly, Dean did as he was told—no snide remarks. His eyes slid close, and soon he was breathing peacefully.

Castiel placed his arms around the man, supporting Dean. His gaze softened and was drawn to the dancing headlights along the highway, zipping past him along with town after town. It almost reminded him of flying…

Dean was okay; Sam was okay.

Castiel felt something wet fall down his face.

"Hey," said Sam's voice from the front, breaking his reverie.

Castiel looked up and wiped his cheek.

"Thanks for…helping us. Sorry for being testy earlier. I was just…"

"I understand," said Castiel.

Who could blame Sam for his anger? He had deeply suffered because of what the ex-angel had done to him, and for abandoning them both for his own selfish and ambitious pursuits.

"But I will make things right," Castiel whispered to Dean while he slept beneath him.

Little did the former angel know that he would be testing the strength of that promise within the next six hours.


	4. The Devil

**Reparations**

 **A/N:** This chapter switches POV to Sam for a bit at first. I just LOVE myself some crazy-Sam, so I had to include a bit of his Lucifer-induced insanity in this fic, as well as some creepy humor. There will be much more Dean and Cas interaction later on, but this chapter is focused on Sam and Cas. Thank you again for the awesome reviews—you guys rock! Enjoy.

 **Chapter 4: The Devil**

Sam was tired. Okay, he was a little more than tired. He was exhausted to the point that every road sign pointed towards the town of SLEEP, and he longed for a sip of some caffeinated sweet crack in a cup, but then he remembered about Dean and what happened to him. And he kept driving.

Sam almost reached to turn up the radio when he was reminded of his sleeping passengers in the dark through the rearview mirror. Well, there was at least _one_ sleeping passenger. Castiel was trying his best to feign slumber, but Sam would catch him subtly checking Dean's bandages or looking out the back window to see if they were being followed.

Cas was still trying to act like Dean's guardian angel.

But Sam didn't care. Heck, at least _one_ of them was being looked after; it better be Dean. He wasn't the one who _voluntarily_ jumped into Hell. No, Dean had been dragged, kicking and screaming. And even if Castiel was now a real boy, it didn't matter as long as they could help each other, right? It's what Bobby would have wanted, after all.

 _Shit!_ Cas didn't know about Bobby. That would be another difficult conversation. Sam sighed, squinting his eyes from tiredness.

"Aw! Isn't that adorable?"

Sam jumped, the car swerving slightly at the addition of a certain angel gone dark-side riding shotgun beside him.

 _Perfect time to show up, Luci. I should have known he would make an appearance on this road trip sooner or later…_

"Is everything all right?" came Castiel's concerned gravelly voice.

Sam sighed heavily again and adjusted the rearview mirror, glancing back at his brother and Cas.

"Yeah," he said, trying to hide the shaking in his voice. "J-just tired."

Lucifer giggled, twisting around to face the back seat and waving frantically. "Hi, Castiel! It's been so long!"

"I can drive if you require rest," said Cas, completely unaware of Sam's hallucination sitting in the front seat. "I have observed you and Dean sufficiently, I believe, to attempt it."

Lucifer coughed back laughter. "How do you keep a straight face around him, Sammy? I could listen to him for hours."

Sam did his best to ignore the devil. Sometimes if he ignored Lucifer, the fiend would just go away.

"N-No. That's okay, Cas. You should try and get some sleep yourself."

"Way to be a man, Sam," said Lucifer with a McConaughey twang in his accent. "Your secret's totally safe with me."

Sam bit his lip and focused all of his attention on the road ahead.

"Don't you want to ask me what the secret is?"

Sam grit his teeth together, trying to ignore the fact that Lucifer was beaming at him cheesily.

"Oh, c'mon!"

Sam continued looking at the road, reading green signs in the distance.

"What secret is that, Luci?" the morning star said in a very serious lower voice (his impression of Sam) before switching over to his normal tone. "Well, I'm glad you asked, Sammy. The secret is that you _secretly_ enjoy watching angel-eyes and the Deanster snuggle up. And, boy, I don't blame you. It's like sugar sprinkled on a cake-filled pie in a vat of ice cream. I might develop diabetes."

Sam turned on some music—selecting one of Dean's tapes: Metallica. It was on a low volume, which kind of defeated the purpose, but it was a nice way to take his mind off Mr. Morning Star next door. That is, until Lucifer started singing along with the song.

"Fight fire with fire…ending is near…fight fire with fire…bursting with fear… we shall all die!"

The younger Winchester quickly took the tape out.

"Awww! Why did ya do that?"

Sam next tried to ignore Lucifer by sifting through old memories—pleasant ones. The action, however, made him even more drowsy, and he shook his head to wake up. This scenario reminded him of the first (and last) all-nighter he had pulled as a freshman in college. Five cups of coffee got him through the evening, but by test-taking time at 8:00 the next morning, his brain was mush. It was the only final he didn't ace, and Sam never made the same mistake again.

"Sammy—you better not run us into a tree."

The younger Winchester snapped back to the present, flinching at Lucifer's words. Perhaps his constant hallucinated companion could be a positive presence after all.

"I'm seriously beginning to question your driving abilities, pal."

Desperate to stay awake, Sam Winchester found himself actually listening to Lucifer.

* * *

Castiel was starting to worry about Sam.

The younger Winchester's behavior had become increasingly strange and erratic beginning around three o'clock in the morning. At first, Castiel had taken the signs as sleep deprivation, but it was when Sam started to _talk_ to himself that alarm bells began going off in the former angel's mind.

"Stop it!" Sam hissed at someone in the passenger seat who was not there.

"Sam?" Castiel squinted at the younger Winchester through the rays of a new dawn. It was nearly 7 AM.

"I told you to stop it," said Sam emphatically, either not hearing or completely ignoring Castiel.

Another pause. Sam looked quickly over at the empty passenger seat again, his eyes radiating pure fury.

"That's not true! He would never… I trust him with my life."

"Sam—"

"Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

Dean groaned beneath him, and Castiel braced both of them as Sam veered to the side of the road, screeching tires leaving a black trail as they spun and abruptly halted. When Castiel opened his eyes, he caught Sam hunched over the steering wheel, hands clasped tightly over his ears.

Although Castiel wasn't exactly sure what was going on, he had a fairly good idea, and the thought made his empty stomach churn. More mistakes from his past coming back to haunt him.

Carefully, Castiel leaned forward and put a tentative hand on Sam's heaving shoulder.

"Are you all—"

Faster than the ex-angel could react, Sam's knife slashed through his right hand. Castiel recoiled instantly, gritting his teeth with the sudden spike of pain.

"Stay away from me!" Sam screamed and opened the car door, running off the side of the road into the adjacent field. Castiel saw that he had taken the knife with him.

Clutching his injured palm with the other hand, Castiel gently maneuvered around the unconscious Dean, removing his leather jacket, rolling it up, and placing it underneath Dean's head as a pillow. Castiel made sure that the older Winchester was resting comfortably, then he headed towards Sam.

Castiel squinted at the brightening sky, and he felt his head begin to throb incessantly. For a brief moment, a wave of dizziness once again crept over him, but Castiel swallowed it back down as he pressed his bleeding palm into the folds of his crumpled white button-up.

 _Just don't think about the red._

A few cars passed by, but the two of them were practically alone in the early morning. Sam stood stalk still, blade clenched in one hand. A few drops of blood dripped from it, and Sam sneered at him as Castiel slowly approached.

"Don't come any closer!" Sam snapped, holding the knife in a defensive position.

Castiel said softly, "I'm unarmed, Sam." But the statement made no difference. As the former angel reached Sam's vicinity, the man raised his knife higher, as if ready to strike.

"All right," muttered Castiel. "Sam—it's okay."

He put his palms up, revealing the fresh gash. It twinged and ached as he stretched his hand out, but the gesture seemed to temporarily satisfy Sam, and the Winchester lowered his blade slightly.

Castiel waited a beat, his hand throbbing, and he felt his rate of breathing increase. Strange—this new burst of energy inside him. What did Dean call it? Adrenaline.

"Is it Lucifer?"

Sam nodded, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion. Castiel noted the dark circles under his eyes—a physical sign of the tormented soul.

"He says…" Sam's eyes immediately rolled to his left. "I said SHUT UP!" And Sam swung the knife in the direction of his phantom tormentor.

Castiel's heart sank. This was bad. This was worse, in fact, than he imagined it would have been, and he couldn't help but swallow back the bitterness of his own guilt.

 _If only I hadn't destroyed that wall in his mind…_

"Sam…Sam." Castiel repeated the man's name a few more times. "Sam, can you ignore him?"

Sam groaned, but it came out more like a frustrated cry. "I've _tried_ that, Cas."

Castiel began to move closer to him again. Maybe he could get the knife and somehow subdue Sam.

"Stop!" Sam cried, and the blade flicked so close to Castiel's face that he almost lost the tip of his nose.

"Sam, I'm just trying to help. You know I never wanted to hurt you."

Sam cocked his head; it was an odd gesture, out of character and strangely chilling to the former angel of the Lord.

"That's not what _he_ says. _He_ says that Dean would follow you anywhere. That you're his _best friend_. And now that you're back, you're going to use your influence over Dean to turn him against me. You'll both lock me away in some asylum and…and…"

Castiel saw his moment and took a chance. He lunged forward and grasped Sam by the hand—the one with the fading scar on it. He knew pain might get rid of the waking nightmare. But Sam wrenched free of his grasp, and Castiel suddenly found a machete blade pressed deeply into his neck.

"Sam," he whispered, a choked murmur. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me… Dean's still in the car. He needs us right now. He would never abandon you, Sam. And neither would I."

Between bated breaths, Castiel gazed deeply into Sam's brown eyes.

There was a period of uncertainty when Sam squeezed them shut, as if to block out Lucifer's poisonous words, and then Castiel felt the pressure of the blade disappear. Instead, Sam plunged the knife into his old scar, crying out. Castiel bent forward and held Sam up by the shoulders, afraid that the larger man might topple over, but Sam remained on his knees.

After a while, Sam opened his eyes, and they were miraculously lucid, although still hazy from lack of sleep. The man shook his head, clearing it.

"Cas?"

Castiel was about to ask him if he felt all right when Sam pulled him into a mother of a bear hug.

"I'm so sorry, Cas!"

Castiel muffled a groan as Sam pressed against the gash by his shoulder, but then the younger Winchester let go, staring at his injured hand.

"Are you better now?" Castiel asked, still worried that the devil might return to Sam's damaged psyche.

"Yeah," Sam said slowly. "Lucifer has left the building. Thanks to you." Suddenly Sam looked down at Castiel's hand and grasped his wrist. "I hurt you!"

Castiel shrugged Sam off, masking his own pain and exhaustion as best he could.

"I am well. You, however, need rest. You have been driving the entire night. Let me take over."

The younger Winchester's mouth dropped open. Castiel himself could not account for his own sudden decisiveness. He had not had this much confidence since he was an angel. And yet, being an angel had enormous responsibilities and a penchant for following orders no matter the cost. Taking care of Sam and Dean seemed a nearly equal task. Their well-being had become Castiel's new crusade, and he would not fail now.

"Well, I guess we should find a motel. Dean needs sleep in a real bed." Sam's voice was hollow, perhaps a symptom of being tired.

"Dean needs to recuperate in a domicile with the correct protections," Castiel stated. "You say Bobby's cabin is equal to this task?"

Sam nodded mutely.

"Then I will drive both of you there."

Trying to hide the shakiness in his knees, Castiel stood and began heading back to the car.

"You?" Sam asked incredulously from behind him. "Ummm… Have you ever driven before?"

"No, but I have observed enough of your driving tonight, and Dean's driving in the past, to understand the basics. I am sure with your initial help that I will be a fast learner." Castiel thought it best to leave out the weakness he felt in his limbs lest Sam should view him as an unfit driver.

"All right."

Castiel was almost stunned when Sam caught up with him and tossed him the keys, stifling a yawn. "I'll show you the map to Bobby's cabin."

The former angel shook his head. "First, we must purchase sustenance."

Sam seemed about to protest when Castiel interrupted. "For Dean as well."

At the mention of his injured brother, Sam nodded and Castiel felt another spike of adrenaline. After checking on Dean (still dead to the world) Castiel slid into the driver's seat of the Winchester's beloved Impala, and Sam took the passenger seat.

After a few awkward stops and starts, Castiel seemed to get the hang of the accelerator, and they were off. He successfully pulled into a gas station and food mart off the highway and was about to get out when he felt a tug on his shirt.

"Wait!" Sam said, eyes wide. "You can't go in there like that."

"Like what?" Castiel fuzzily looked down at his own clothes and realized they were covered in blood—some vampire, some of Dean's, and most of it having belonged to himself.

Sam said, "You look like you just stepped out of a slasher film. Let me go, okay?"

Castiel was about to protest, but then he saw how relatively clean Sam's clothes were compared to his. Any bloodstains from Dean's injuries only got on his jean jacket, which the younger Winchester smoothly took off and rolled up.

When Sam came back from the store a minute later with a brown paper bag, he produced a veritable feast of snack foods. There were packets of chips, granola bars, bottled water, cookies, candy, soda, an assortment of fresh fruit, and two cups of coffee. Castiel had only tried the bitter substance once before and hadn't particularly enjoyed the experience, but this time it slid warmly down his throat. After one sip, he felt more awake.

Next, they pulled around to a more secluded area behind the station so Sam could stitch up some of Dean's deeper wounds. The younger Winchester praised Castiel for his thorough work on sanitizing and bandaging Dean's abdomen and arms. Dean began waking up when Sam put in the stitches, but not enough to show if he was in pain, and that worried Castiel.

The former angel sipped his coffee as Sam began to get Dean up and in a partial sitting position.

"C'mon, man," said Sam enticingly.

"Mmph," said Dean and tried to lie back down.

"Dean, I need you to drink some more water."

"Tired," said Dean. "Sammy, jus' leave me 'lone."

"Oh well," said Sam. "That's too bad." He winked at Castiel. "Guess I'll have to eat all this pie by myself."

"Pie?" Dean immediately perked up and began to push himself upright. "Where?!"

Castiel marveled at Sam's abilities, and Sam smiled knowingly at him. "Like bacon to a dog."

Then he produced a pie pocket, opened the package, and gave it to Dean. His older brother practically ate it in two bites, waiting for Sam to give him a few sips of water before leaning sideways, the effort of eating clearly draining his already depleted energy.

"Best apple pie ever," he murmured as his eyes closed.

"It was marionberry," said Sam then shrugged and made sure his brother was comfortable.

Castiel had started on a second cup of coffee (which was technically Sam's) and waited until Sam was back in the passenger seat before turning the ignition.

"Hey—"

Castiel started as Sam took his right hand—the one he had slashed open—and wrapped a soft white swathe around it, securing it with tape.

"Thank you," Castiel said softly, "but I don't deserve your kindness."

The words had poured out of his mouth before he had the clarity to stop them. Sam looked over at him, his eyes blurring with emotion.

"Cas, you answered my prayers. You saved Dean, and then you saved me too. Try to understand how grateful we are for that, and let us help you."

With that, Sam settled into a corner of the seat, falling asleep almost instantly. Castiel studied the route to the cabin on Sam's map and took off at a slight-above-the-limit speed.

If only Sam knew that he was sent back to atone for his sins, not to be thanked for them.

* * *

Castiel drove for nearly twelve hours straight, stopping off only a few times when Sam woke up and needed more food, or to check on Dean. Castiel avoided eating; the very idea sent his stomach into sickening loops, but he subsisted on a steady round of coffees and something called Cherry Coke, which was perhaps the most delicious liquid to ever pass between his lips.

Around 8 PM, they finally reached Bobby's cabin in Montana. Castiel was actually looking forward to greeting the older hunter again, even if they had not parted on the best of terms. Perhaps Bobby would be able to forgive him the way Sam and Dean supposedly said they did.

But when Sam opened the door to the cabin, turned on the lights, and helped Castiel get Dean out of the car, it was very clear that Bobby was not in. At first, Castiel assumed that the hunter was off somewhere, perhaps tracking Leviathans. Then Sam gave him the bad news as they eased Dean onto the couch in front of the fireplace.

"Bobby's dead…He…He was killed by Dick Roman, the head of the Leviathans."

Castiel felt his already-aching stomach twist into further knots, and he clutched the side of the sofa for stability.

"Oh…I didn't know," he said, trying his best to sound unaffected by the most recent revelation.

Sam pursed his lips together in a worried fashion, about to say more when Dean stirred beneath them, and Sam leaned forward to help his brother sit up.

"Easy, easy," Sam said, peeling off Castiel's trench coat from his brother and getting an extra bottle of water from the supplies he had lugged in from the car. "Here, drink this."

Dean groaned, sitting up and rubbing a hand across his face. He muttered something that Castiel couldn't make out, but Sam seemed to understand him.

"Look, you've been asleep most of the day. I don't think that's a good idea—"

"Flask…Now," Dean commanded.

Sam sighed in exasperation yet went to his duffel and pulled out a silver flask, handing it to Dean. Dean twisted open the cap and took a long pull from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done.

"That's better," he said, voice still hoarse, but stronger than before. Slowly, he made a move to get up.

Castiel put up a hand to stop him, but Sam was there first. "Hold on. You're not going anywhere."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, I feel like a packing peanut. I've been cooped up in the back of a car all day. Just let me stretch my legs."

Sam finally relented, albeit grudgingly, and Dean stood up shakily. Castiel put a hand to steady his friend, and Dean's eyes latched on the ex-angel as if he hadn't noticed him there before.

"Hey, Cas!" he said, his face forcing a grin. "Wanna drink?"

"No, thank you," said Castiel quietly.

Dean shrugged and walked stiffly towards the fridge where a few liquor bottles crowned the top next to boxes of cereal.

Sam's sigh was audible as Dean poured a triple shot of whiskey in a tumbler, and the younger Winchester began unpacking.

"Dean, would you take it easy for once? You almost got killed less than 24 hours ago."

His brother scoffed and sipped his drink. "So what's new? I never asked you to come rescue me, Sammy."

"What was I supposed to do? Believe that you'd come back just fine from a hunt as dangerous as walking into a vampire's nest?"

"You just don't trust me anymore, Sam. Ever since Amy. Admit it!"

Sam looked away, and Castiel could tell the younger man was angry from the way his shoulders had seized up.

"That has nothing to do with this."

"Of course it does. You think I did the wrong thing by killing a monster, but I did it to save others and protect you."

"I don't need your protection!" Sam shouted.

"Not even from Lucifer?"

Sam spun around in his seat. "I can handle it just fine!"

"Just like you handled it this morning?"

Sam stood up, fists clenched, but his voice was full of shame. "You saw?"

"I saw everything, Sammy. And if Cas hadn't been there, you might've gone off the—"

Castiel cleared his throat rather loudly.

It was as if both of the Winchesters suddenly realized he was there, and both turned at the same time to stare at him.

"I should be going."

"Right," drawled Dean, finishing his drink. "I've heard that Maui is nice this time of year for feathered friends."

Castiel bowed his head, wave after wave of emotion threatening to spill out, but he gritted his teeth. Underneath his white button-up, the shoulder wound began to bleed again.

"Dean!" Sam hissed. "He's a _human_ now."

"Oh…" came Dean's soft response "Sorry, Cas."

Castiel couldn't bear to look either one in the eyes, so he simply lifted his shoulders to show that Dean's previous comment meant nothing, when it was all he could do not to crumple to his knees with self-pity.

"Hey, Cas," said Sam, getting his attention by walking towards him. "You should stay with us. There's a spare room next to the bathroom. It's small, but you can go rest."

Castiel shook his head. "Dean should have it. He is injured."

"Nah, I'll be fine, Cas," came Dean's voice, even softer. "Why don't you go lie down? You look beat."

Castiel nodded compliantly and was about to turn around when Sam placed the remains of his trench coat, folded up, in his arms. Castiel mumbled a simple thanks and headed to the bedroom.

It was tiny but had a single twin bed, nightstand, and small window. Castiel sat on the edge of the bed and let his feelings sift through his mind like grains of sand, marking the slow passage of time.

Bobby was dead because of Leviathans. Because of _him._ And that made number one million on his list of sins. Not only had the boys lost a father figure, he had lost a dear friend.

And then there was Sam and Dean. He had at least expected the two to depend on each other and trust in one another the way they always did. It was the one thing he could count on both of them—to be fair and self-sacrificing for each other. They had helped one another in the thick of the vampire nest, but now once safe, their façade was breaking down. Had he caused this rupture as well? Had he obliterated more than just the gate to Purgatory and the wall in Sam's mind? Had he destroyed Sam and Dean's relationship in the process?

Castiel decided two things in that moment: one, that he could not infringe any longer on the hospitality of the Winchesters, and, two, that he would return to heaven one way or another before the day was over.

 **To be continued…**


	5. The Ghost and the Cat

**Reparations**

 **A/N:** This if the first of my fics to get some fan art to go with it, and I'm so happy! Huge thanks to Sean! If anyone else is interested in creating fan art for my fics (past and future) feel free to PM me.

Poor Cas! Someone needs to give him a hug. I'm afraid I enjoy torturing the angel for as long as possible before getting to the "comfort" part, but Castiel _will_ get some relief by the end of this chapter—he deserves it for kicking so much butt! You have also reached the beginning of some fluffiness (literally and figuratively) in this fic. The angst will continue, but I also like to throw in some fluff now and then. Thank you so much for the encouragement and reviews. I appreciate all feedback! Enjoy.

 **Chapter 5: The Ghost and the Cat**

Carefully, Castiel shook out his shredded and gore-stained trench coat and slid it on. Then he pulled the hunting knife from a pants pocket, placing it gently on the bed, and calmly opened the window.

The opening was just large enough to climb through. Castiel grunted and squeezed his way through the small space, wincing as it tugged at his shoulder wound, which had already begun to radiate a strange heat. At the same time, a coldness permeated his bones, and he wrapped his coat around him. Castiel closed the window as quietly as possible and began walking down the dirt road that would lead to the highway. He moved without any particular plans in mind, just praying that he would know where he was going when he got there. Castiel hoped that Sam and Dean would not be angry with him for leaving. After all, he did not mean to abandon them—rather, he could not handle being with them if it caused a constant reminder of his fatal errors.

 _Because of you, Leviathans terrorize the earth._

Castiel walked until he reached the highway and then turned left, ambling against the flow of traffic. Each step became heavier as the weariness of the past twenty-four hours finally caught up with him. Dizziness forced him to stop several times, and the glare of headlights bounced against his skull, making it ache. His stomach churned.

Yet, in spite of his physical pain, Castiel carried on. All in all, he had experienced far worse agony as an angel. What was one more night as a human? Still, the heat of his wound and his own shivering was starting to worry him. Almost on a whim, he took off his trench coat and dumped it along the side of the road. It was a marker of his old life anyway. It had been Jimmy's, and Jimmy's soul was long gone now, of course. Why should he still keep it?

Castiel's breath came out in puffs of air as the chill of late October sunk into his bones. Stars above him winked through patches in the treetops, and light from the moon gave him an ample glow to continue.

"Stop!"

Castiel gasped and stumbled in fear, barely catching himself in time before he hit the ground. His breath ragged, the former angel whirled around, but all he saw was an old oak tree growing on the side of a cliff by the road. Puzzled, and beginning to think he was hearing things, Castiel stepped over the guardrail to investigate.

Upon seeing nothing—although he did hear a high-pitched squeal of some kind, like a squeak—Castiel stepped to the edge of the cliff.

The stars looked down upon him and illuminated a deep gorge. Running through it swiftly was a river, its small waves dappled in moonlight. The scene was calm and beckoned to Castiel almost audibly; the cliff was calling him home.

Castiel took a step off the edge when a force suddenly jerked him backwards. Thrown off, he landed awkwardly on his left side, aggravating his wound further and sending fresh sparks of pain through his body. He groaned and looked around, but there was no one.

"Show yourself, demon!" he cried. "I'm in no mood for games tonight!"

Then, like a faulty light flickering on, the figure of a woman appeared. She was paler than normal humans in the darkness, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with short dark hair.

"H-hello," she said timidly.

Castiel slowly got to his feet and cocked his head. He almost didn't believe what he saw.

"A ghost?"

"Y-you aren't going to step off the cliff again, are you?"

"No." Castiel didn't know if it was a lie or not. He stepped forward, a brief wave of lightheadedness striking between his eyes, and he felt his knees buckle.

"Here—let me help you."

Instantly, the ghost intervened. Her cold hands guided him to sit at the base of the tree. Once his vision cleared, Castiel found the spirit sitting directly in front of him, staring at him with a mixture of concern and apprehension. He looked deeply into her blue eyes and found himself transported back thirty years ago to an idyllic scene by a lake and a little girl wearing a pink bathing suit.

"Do… Do I know you?"

"My name is Celia."

There were screams from the shore, an inordinate amount of splashing, pink mixed with green and blue. One moment the girl was underwater and not breathing; the next he had folded her into his wings and placed a finger on her forehead. Small blue eyes opened and looked into _his_ blue eyes, first with fear and then with delight.

"You saved me from drowning when I was a little girl… You were my guardian angel."

Castiel shook his head. "I was merely called for a purpose… There were prayers, and I answered them."

"Whatever you want to call it," Celia said, frowning. "You saved me then. I want to know why you didn't save me three months ago."

Suddenly she gripped his arm. Castiel tried to struggle against her, but he was too weak, and he seemed to be pinned by her piercing gaze.

"I—I don't understand."

Celia's eyes began glowing vengefully. "I want to know why you didn't save me three months ago when I crashed into this tree. Why did I have to die?"

Castiel bowed his head. Another mistake he could add to his novel of shortcomings. How could he explain to the woman's spirit that he had been out of commission for the last three months, that Leviathans were loose on the planet, and angels were an endangered species? Something told him it wouldn't work as an excuse.

"I'm…sorry." And he genuinely _was_ sorry, for everything.

"That's not good enough!" she barked, her grip on his arm tightening. "I had a career, a husband, two beautiful children. And now they will live the rest of their lives with me as a distant memory from their past—a photo in an old family album."

He saw her eyes fill with tears, and he did everything he could to hold his own emotions back, but Castiel couldn't stop them any longer. Tears (so strange!) wound their way down his cheeks.

"What do you want me to say?" he murmured, feeling the warm wetness on his face contrast with the burning of his skin.

"I want an answer!" Celia cried, her nails digging into his skin now. "Tell my why you saved me only to let me die at 35. I wasn't very old, and it wasn't my fault. A single patch of ice, and I was gone. ANSWER ME!"

Castiel swallowed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I have no answer, Celia. The hows and whys of the universe are not entirely known to angels, even rebellious and fallen ones. But I _can_ tell you that I am sorry I was not there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry."

He finally had the courage to look her in the eyes, and when he did he saw the little girl with long dark locks in the pink swimsuit, delivered on the shore of the lake to her parents, breathing in a new day. Castiel sighed and bowed his head, completely spent and longing to be sent back to heaven.

Then, a miracle occurred.

The pressure on his arm vanished, and Celia said, "I forgive you."

Castiel looked up. A bright and glowing white light was beginning to surround the ghosts's body. As it spread over her, a smile crept at the corner of her lips. She looked behind her shoulder, as if she could just now gaze upon a far better horizon.

"Thank you, Castiel," she said evenly, her voice warm and genuine. "Thank you for helping me to see the way home."

The ex-angel was too exhausted to speak. All he did was nod and thank God silently for being able to help Celia, if not in life then in death.

"I hope you find peace," she said to him and was about to turn into the light when she paused abruptly. "Oh, by the way, there's a cat stuck up this tree. You might want to rescue it. Aren't angels kind of like the firefighters of heaven?"

With that, Celia stepped into the light and disappeared.

* * *

There was a distinct lightness in his head and something warm seeping through his already stained white shirt. Castiel couldn't help thinking that it was odd hearing a cat make cat noises. He supposed that _must_ have been what was crying at him when he first approached the tree, but he hadn't seen it before, and as he scanned its branches, Castiel saw why.

The cat was very small—perhaps a kitten—and its fur was mostly black and blended in well with the night sky. As he craned his neck to see it, Castiel spotted the little creature clinging to a branch midway up the tree towards its center. As he squinted, he saw distinct white markings on its paws and running down its chest.

"How did you get up there?" he asked the cat wearily.

As if it understood him, the kitten mewled pathetically in response.

Castiel replied, "Very well." Animal thoughts were very easy to read as an angel because they were much simpler than humans'. However, even without his celestial powers, Castiel still felt the fear emanating from the furry beast above him, and he would do his best to help it.

The question was _how_ to help it. Castiel was not an experienced tree climber. Nevertheless, he slowly hoisted himself up from one level to the next, trying to find footholds among knots and twisted branches. All of this maneuvering further aggravated his shoulder, but the increased meowing from the kitten spurred him on.

At last, he reached the black and white cat. Puffing with exertion, sweat ran down his forehead, and Castiel was afraid to look down for fear that the sight would cause another bout of vertigo. Lacking wings had a funny effect of making even lesser heights appear terrifying.

"All right," Castiel wheezed at the cat. "Now that I am here, what do you propose?"

In answer to his query, the little beast leaped lightly onto his right shoulder, like a parrot clinging to its pirate master.

Castiel grunted and slowly began his downward descent. The kitten dug its claws into his shoulder—which was not an entirely unpleasant feeling—and held on for the ride.

They were halfway down when disaster struck. The narrow branch underfoot snapped in two, sending Castiel (and the kitten) temporarily air born. Floundering desperately, Castiel managed a shaky grip on another branch, but even as he clung to it, he could hear it breaking.

He swiveled his head to look at the kitten. "You might want to jump now."

Apparently, the cat already had that move in mind because before the former angel had finished talking, the kitten had run down the length of Castiel's body and leaped the remaining five feet to the ground. If the kitten had had the power of speech or telepathy, it would have conveyed to Castiel that he wasn't very far from the ground either, but since Castiel had developed a sudden fear of heights, he wouldn't risk looking down.

Unfortunately, the branch to which he was clinging eventually broke, and Castiel cried out, jamming his left shoulder against another limb before crashing painfully to the ground.

Castiel was alarmed when he opened his eyes and saw darkness. Then his fuzzy brain reminded him it was because his face was pressed into dirt.

He felt something warm trickle from his right temple into the mud beneath him, and he groaned. This was not good. Even though excruciating pain shot through his body, he could lift his head.

When he did, he found himself face to face with large yellow eyes and a giant wet nose.

"Wonderful," he said, his voice muffled by the ground. "You are still here."

The kitten's small body seemed twice as large close up, with its black tail puffed out and its giant inquisitive eyes piercing his. Its breath came out in a buzzing whisper, like the hum of a beehive.

Castiel sighed and slowly got to his hands and knees, hearing joints (hopefully not bones) pop as he moved.

"No need to worry. I'm all right." He winced as he sat up against the trunk of the tree. "I guess."

When his head began throbbing again, Castiel cradled it in his hands. A soft wind rustled through the leaves of the recently damaged old oak, and Castiel began shivering uncontrollably.

"L-look at me," he chattered, his arms falling helplessly at his sides.

Then he felt something warm, wet, and a bit like sandpaper run across his knuckles. When he opened his eyes, the ex-angel saw the kitten looking up at him. Marveling at the creature, Castiel watched as the cat leaped delicately into his lap and meowed as if to say, "A little attention, please?"

Castiel felt himself smile despite everything that had happened in the past 24 hours.

"Are you hurt?" he asked as he held it up—a light ball of fluff—and ran his hand over its back and each paw. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, although he was no expert on felines.

However, it mewled again. More attention.

"Male or female?" Castiel asked and lifted the kitten up, checking. "Ah—female… How did you get out here all alone?"

The kitten didn't seem to be interested in the question. She was more intent in licking the salt content off his hand. Castiel checked for tags, but there were none. Perhaps she had been abandoned. In that case, it would mean that he was the kitten's owner now.

Castiel's head began to feel fuzzy again. Darkness ringed around the edges of his vision.

"I should name you," he murmured. "But what to call you…"

The kitten had already curled up on his lap, stretched out.

"How about…Grace?"

But she was already fast asleep.

Castiel felt his eyelids close too as he put an arm around Grace, protecting her from the chill of the wind under the midnight shadows of the old oak.

* * *

"Hey! Cas!"

A familiar voice startled him from sleep. For a moment, Castiel could not remember where he was, but then he felt the small sphere of warmth on his lap and saw Grace yawning, her little pink tongue lashing out at the intrusion.

"Oh, God. His head is bleeding. Sam—"

"Already on it."

Castiel felt warm fingertips brush his forehead gently. He kept blinking, but the images in front of him refused to focus.

"Cas! Wake up!"

"The wound is superficial, Dean."

"Thank you, Doctor Sexy. But why won't he wake up?"

"Castiel?"

The ex-angel turned to his right, and suddenly Sam's face appeared, wearing a very worried expression.

"S-Sam?"

"Cas?"

It took him twice as long to move his head, but then his vision of Dean became clear, paralleled by the beam of a flashlight. The older Winchester's eyes were almost glowing with concern.

"Dammit, Cas! What happened? Why did you disappear on us, buddy?"

Castiel tried to concentrate, but he was just so tired, and thoughts were difficult to formulate. "Had to…leave."

"But _why_?"

"Dean!" Sam cut in sharply. "How about we wait for the interrogation until morning? He's done in."

"Yeah, all right," Dean mumbled. "But I still want to know why he just left like that, without saying a word, and tossed his coat—" Castiel saw the flash of khaki in Dean's grasp. The Winchester was holding onto it like a pastry chef holds onto his last clean rolling pin.

Castiel never meant to cause either of his friends grief. But how could he possibly explain his rationale for leaving the way he did? Would they even understand?

"Looks like he ran into _something_ ," said Sam quietly.

Castiel whispered a response.

"What was that?" Dean bent down stiffly to Cas.

"My face… the ground."

Sam exchanged glances with Dean, about ready to crack up. Dean just seemed baffled.

"Cas, what have we told you about staying up for more than 24 hours at a time?"

Castiel shook his head wearily.

"Most people start to hallucinate, but you start to have a sense of humor."

Dean attempted to hoist him to his feet, which made Castiel cling to Grace in case she fell, which made him accidentally pull on her tail, which made Grace shriek, which made Dean let go of Castiel in alarm.

Castiel thudded back to the ground, flinching.

Dean shouted a wide range of expletives before crying, "You have a _cat_?!"

"Dean—" Sam tried to interject again.

"How did you get a cat?!"

"She was stuck up a tree, and I saved her," Castiel said, rubbing his head and soothing the squirming kitten in his lap. "Grace, this is Dean. Dean, this is Grace. Grace—Sam. Sam—"

"Ohhhhkay, Cas," Sam interrupted. "Let's get you back to the car without dropping you." He gave Dean a severe warning glare. "Let me take the cat."

With a confused meow, Grace was gently picked up, and Sam supported her in his right arm, helping Dean grab hold of Cas with the other.

Together, they began slowly shuffling back to the car, half-dragging Castiel most of the time. Dean mumbled something about cats, and why did someone have to pick up a fleabag on their fieldtrip? Castiel had a sneaking suspicion that Dean was referring to _him_ , but he was too weak to care and much too cold. His knees knocked together, and then Castiel felt them give out entirely.

"Jesus! Sam!" barked Dean as Castiel fell heavily against the Winchester's injured abdomen. Sam scrambled, balancing Grace in one arm with the wobbly angel on his other. At last, they managed to grab Castiel in an awkward embrace, and Castiel swiveled his head towards Dean.

"Your injuries have not fully healed, Dean. You should rest."

Dean rolled his eyes and flashed a winning smile. "Once Sam and I manage to capture a certain renegade angel who insists on picking up strays for fun, you can bet your boots I will."

Castiel tilted his head to one side. Sometimes Dean's logic escaped him. "But I am not wearing any boots—"

"All right!" said Sam with forced cheerfulness. "Head down, Cas."

Castiel felt Dean gently bow his head as they guided him into the back seat of the Impala parked by the side of the road. Castiel was about to ask where Grace was when Sam deposited the kitten in his lap. Dean tossed his trench coat beside him for good measure then walked around to the driver's seat and hopped in.

The former angel felt sleep begin to steal over his senses again, but he still heard the conversation between the brothers as Dean revved the engine.

"Looks like a vamp took a good slice at Cas."

"Yeah, the cut at his shoulder… Maybe needs stitches."

Dean paused. " _Maybe?_ It _definitely_ needs stitches, Sam. In fact, it needed stitches _last night_."

"You're right," Sam said with a sigh. "I'm sorry…I guess I was so worried about you that I forgot about Cas."

"I can't believe this," Dean muttered, not even bothering to disguise the anger in his voice. "He doesn't have his angel mojo anymore, Sam. He can't Wolverine his way out of every injury. He could have died!"

"All _right_ ," Sam said, his voice beginning to have an edge to it too. "I'm sorry that I flipped out and let Lucifer get the best of me again."

"Why are you bringing _that_ up?"

"Because _that's_ what you're still upset about, isn't it? Well, if it hadn't been for you-know-who, Lucifer never would have _shared_ my hippocampus, okay?"

"Hippo- _what?!"_

While the conversation deteriorated into another argument, and the volume of the brothers' voices steadily increased, Castiel saw his chance to escape again. Their anger was gnawing at his own guilt, which had been surprisingly dormant through the episode of saving Grace. Flight seemed the best option again. Unfortunately, Grace couldn't go with him on his journey, so he gently picked her up and set her on the folded up coat beside him.

"Stay here," he whispered and slipped out of the car. Castiel prided himself that he could be quite stealthy when he set his mind to it, and it helped that the Winchesters were more focused on verbally assaulting each other than paying attention to the former angel in the back seat.

He could feel heat radiate through his body again, and the wooziness returned. Castiel licked his lips, trying his best to think through a feverish brain.

 _Will walk to a new road. Find coffee. Get a car. Drive north. Somewhere cool. Cold. Get iced coffee…_

Castiel made it a solid ten yards away from the vehicle when his legs refused to work properly, and he met the ground once again, falling into the dark embrace of unconsciousness.

 **To be continued…**


	6. Fever

**Reparations**

 **A/N:** This chapter is slightly shorter, but it's told from Dean's POV and includes some (ABOUT TIME!) comforting of the angel. For those of you who love Dean taking care of Cas, this chapter is for you! I can't say it enough—thank you for all the wonderful reviews! And, as always, hope you enjoy.

 **Chapter 6: Fever**

Dean was pissed. He was also tired and sore and severely craving a drink, but he was mostly pissed. And although Sam was currently receiving the bulk of his wrath, most of Dean's loathing was directed firmly at himself. He never should have gone in the bar alone, scoping out vampires like he was some fictional Abe Lincoln. He put Sam's life, and Castiel's life, in danger.

 _Castiel._ He was back. _You got your angel back and almost let him get away again._

Dean wanted to tell Sam that he was worried about him and his sanity, and scared to death of the Leviathan situation. He wanted to catch up with Cas and tell him how sorry he was about the whole Purgatory plan gone wrong. God knew the little guy was probably beating himself up big time for what he let happen. Dean knew Castiel's guilty tendencies because it was a common Winchester trait, and Cas was part of their family now. Hell, all Dean wanted to do was tell Cas that he was like a brother to him—and knowing his brother was still alive (and not sleeping with the fishes at the bottom of a lake) was the best feeling in the world.

And Dean could really use a hug.

But all that came out of his mouth was vindictive poison. It was the Winchester way, he supposed. The macho charade was important to keep up, so Dean fueled his argument with Sam in hurtful phrases and spiteful clichés, like pouring kerosene on a candle flame.

Thank God Sam kept his cool much better than Dean, or else they wouldn't have caught that their car was short an angel.

"Hey—where's Cas?"

Dean's first thought was that Cas had bailed on them in classic celestial style, just opened his black wings and flown away, but then he remembered that Cas was seriously lacking mojo.

Sam turned towards his side-view mirror. Dean did the same.

"Not again!"

The two raced out of the car simultaneously. Dean reached Castiel's still form first and rolled him over onto his side.

"Cas! Say something!"

The angel's eyes blinked open blearily. "Dean?"

"What the hell, man? Why do you keep running off? Do I need to get the handcuffs?"

Castiel's mouth opened, but they couldn't hear him. Both Sam and Dean leaned in closer.

"No…more…fighting…cannot…bare it."

It dawned on Dean like a flash of lightning, and he felt his face burn in the darkness. Sam's cheeks had also gone a tinge of pink. Who would have guessed? With all that Castiel had gone through, the Winchesters' arguments were clearly not helping the angel's current state of mind.

"Sorry, Cas. We promise to take a break from the bickering. Sam?"

His brother bobbed his head quickly. "It's a truce."

"But I'm getting the handcuffs out next time if you try to run away again. Deal?"

Castiel nodded, and maybe Dean was imagining things, but he thought he saw a faint smile on the angel's lips. Then his eyes rolled up and closed abruptly.

"Cas?" Dean moved to shake him, but Sam stopped him, gesturing for silence.

"I think we should let him rest. At least until we get back to the cabin."

Dean agreed and made a move to get Castiel in a seated position, but Sam had already picked him up—too easily, almost—and walked back to the car with the angel in his arms.

Sam placed Cas in the backseat next to the fleabag and quietly buckled him in. Ducking his head, Sam looked at Dean as he worked. "You driving?"

"You know…" Dean felt almost physically ill at seeing his best friend slumped unconscious in the backseat. "I'm feelin' pretty beat. Think I'll sit back here with Cas. You know, make sure he doesn't escape…" Dean threw in a he's-giving-us-gray-hairs, but-we-love-him smile for effect.

Sam shrugged, though his face held a knowing look. Dean tossed his brother the keys as he slid into the back beside Castiel. Making sure there was enough room, the older Winchester buckled in as Sam drove away.

Dean had not expected Sam to veer off sharply at the closest grocery store. When Dean balked at Sam stopping, his brother explained that they needed some provisions, not to mention cat litter and cat food. Dean was quick to mention that they could always drop furball off on the nearest street corner, and Sam was even quicker to mention that Castiel would probably never speak to either of them again if they did that.

Dean handed Sam a few bucks after he parked in the lot. "What's this for?"

"The essentials of life, Sam."

"Protein bars, kale, and toothpaste?"

Dean made a face like he was going to throw up. "Beer, pie, and hamburgers."

Sam pursed his lips together, displaying the eternal bitchface. "Did I ever tell you you're one meal away from a heart attack?"

"Did I ever tell you you're adorable when you're cranky?"

Sam snorted a laugh and slammed the door shut. The noise caused Castiel to jump slightly, and he stirred.

"Where… What happened?" he mumbled, eyes unfocused.

Dean turned his attention to his friend. "Hey, buddy. It's okay. You just passed out. We're going to get you home soon, so I can take care of this cut."

It was actually more of a _gash_ , but Castiel was far from lucid in his current state of mind, and Dean didn't want to say anything that might scare the angel and make him bolt again. Carefully, Dean pulled back the collar of Cas's button-up, sticky with fresh blood, and inspected the wound near his left shoulder. It ran from his sternum to his clavicle, and it was enflamed an angry red. Dean just hoped it wasn't infected, or they were all bound to have a rough night ahead of them.

While inspecting the injury, Castiel began to shiver beside him.

"Cas?" Dean questioned, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

The angel flinched at Dean's touch, his teeth chattering. "Hurts…So c-cold."

Dean immediately grabbed Castiel's discarded trench coat, flinging Grace unceremoniously off in the process.

"Sorry, princess. Gonna have to find some other place to snuggle."

Grace seemed fairly nonplussed about being woken from her beauty sleep and instead yawned and began grooming, licking her paws delicately.

Meanwhile, Dean cautiously wrapped the khaki coat around Castiel's body. Gradually, his shivering stopped and his eyes closed again, falling asleep. Almost instantly, Grace padded onto Castiel's lap, where she curled up and also went to sleep.

Knowing there wasn't much more he could do for his friend, Dean contented himself with waiting for Sam. But soon, he also felt exhaustion overpower him, and Dean was too tired to fight it.

* * *

"Dean!"

The older Winchester woke with a start. For a brief moment, he forgot where he was, then he blinked with confusion as he found himself sprawled in the back seat of the Impala. Castiel's head rested on his left shoulder, and the kitten was sleeping in Dean's lap.

Sam coughed, the back doors open and Bobby's cabin behind him.

"I—I swear I didn't take a picture."

Dean moaned and quickly straightened up, Castiel sagging sideways limply. The kitten yawned, pink tongue making an appearance that made Dean want to gag.

Sam suppressed a grin and held up a bag of groceries. "Home sweet home!"

Before Sam could make another comment, Dean said, "You take the hellcat. I've got Cas."

Sam wisely made no comment and picked up Grace, carting both the kitten and the groceries into the cabin. Dean tried his hardest to wake Cas up, but the best he could manage was a half-lidded ex-angel, and there was no way Dean could carry him inside in his present state.

Thankfully, Sam was back in a few minutes and read Dean's mind, the way he had countless times before, sensing his main problem.

"Castiel?" his younger brother said firmly, yet gingerly. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes," said the angel, although his eyes were still partly closed.

"If you try to wake up, I will make you a hamburger with extra bacon."

Castiel's eyes flickered. "Bacon?"

Sam winked at Dean. "Yes."

Like a light being switched on, Castiel immediately sat up and groggily attempted to stand. Sam continued encouraging him all the way until Castiel was walking towards the cabin, in a daze, flanked by both Winchesters.

"How did you _do_ that?" Dean hissed through his teeth.

Sam grinned. "Cas has a thing for burgers the way you do for pie. I know what motivates you two."

Still amazed, they managed to walk Cas all the way to the bathroom, where Sam had already started a bath.

"Gee, Sam. You shouldn't have," Dean said with a wink and began to remove his jacket.

Sam gave him a sharp look. "It's for Cas. Make sure he scrubs off some of that dirt. I'll be making food."

And before Dean could protest, Sam was out the door and breezing toward the kitchen.

Dean sighed in exasperation. "So I get stuck with Mr. Catatonic?"

Castiel looked up at him, his eyes glazed. Then they widened slightly, as if just noticing Dean was there for the first time. "Oh. Hi."

The older Winchester steered Castiel towards the toilet seat and sat him down.

"Be right back, chuckles."

He dashed out of the room, gathering an extra pair of his pajamas, a towel, and soap. Rushing back to the bathroom, he found Cas with his head tilted against the back wall, passed out again.

"Oh no!" Dean growled, louder than he intended. Castiel jumped, opening his eyes. "No sleeping until after bath time, capiche?"

Castiel nodded as Dean ran a hand through the bath water, checking that it wasn't too hot. Considering the way Cas continued to quake, he figured the angel could use a little warming up. Next, he took off Castiel's shoes and socks and helped him remove his button-up. The angel winced as the fabric rubbed against his injured shoulder, but it gave Dean a better opportunity to examine the hurt.

"Definitely gonna need stitches," he mumbled.

"Where?" Castiel asked, his eyes unfocused.

"Disneyland," Dean said, deadpan.

Castiel cocked his head at him, the way he had done dozens of times before. It made him look like a bird, and a pang of warmth shot through Dean's chest.

"Your shoulder, Cas," he said. "It's good to have you back."

A small smile crept at the edges of Castiel's mouth. "It's good to see you too…"

Dean cleared his throat, avoiding any egregious sappiness, and instead thrust a bundle of clean clothes, towel, and soap into Castiel's hands.

"All yours, champ. Lather up, rinse off, put clean clothes on, and let me know when you're done. I'll be right outside."

Then Dean practically ran out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him and noting the puzzled expression on the angel's face as it shut.

Dean waited outside for an agonizing ten minutes. He kept praying that he wouldn't hear any splashing or sudden bumps that would force him to check on Castiel. Thank his brother for delegating him the awkward task of angel bath duty. Next time, it was Sam's turn. As he waited, Dean's stomach growled with the smell of freshly sizzling burgers steaming in from the kitchen. At least Sam had bought decent food.

Eventually, Dean got restless and knocked assertively on the door to the restroom.

"Cas? Are you okay in there?"

When he didn't hear a response, Dean braced himself for anything awkward he might see and ran into the room.

Well, it could have been worse. At least Castiel had managed to put on Dean's pair of extra pajamas, and from the lack of blood streaks on his face, he had managed to get relatively clean in the tub.

But awake, Clarence was not.

Castiel was conked out between the bath and the toilet, his back pressed against the wall. It looked like he had been in the process of putting on some fleece socks when his body gave up. Dean debated whether or not to take a picture of this angel mess on his phone but decided that Cas wouldn't really see the humor in it anyway.

Instead, Dean began the arduous task of getting the angel to a bed, desperately wanting to take a 15-hour nap himself.

"Cas? Wake up, buddy."

Nothing. Not even a moan or a flicker of an eyelid.

Dean knelt down and gently grasped Castiel's shoulders. He was careful not to jostle the angel unnecessarily and aggravate any of his injuries. The vampires had really done a number on him. Bruises graced his face and mottled his sides. And a blood (and now water) soaked bandage remained strapped to his right hand where Sam had swiped at him. Dean bit his lip, mad at himself that he had only been half-conscious for _that_ episode. Cas also must have hit his head at least a few times throughout the course of their tumultuous day, and Dean wondered if the angel wasn't concussed.

"C'mon. You can sleep all you want once you're actually in the bed…"

Then—a small response. His eyes slid open lazily, circling around before finally focusing on Dean, but it took him a few seconds too long.

"Michael?" he whispered, confusion etched across his face, followed by fear.

"What?" Dean snapped.

Castiel cowered and tried to wriggle away from Dean, but the best he could do was press the side of his face against the drywall and avoid eye contact. "I…I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to!"

Dean's pulse quickened. He could let Cas calling him "Michael" go, but if the angel was continuing to torture himself…

"Cas, it's all right. You know I don't blame you for what happened."

The angel looked up, almost amazed. And—dear God—were there tears in his eyes? "You don't?"

Dean's first instinct was to run away from this inevitable chick flick moment, but he also knew it was a serious issue that Castiel probably wouldn't let go if he felt that it affected their friendship.

"No. You had all those evil Leviathan asshats swimming around inside you. I know you didn't mean to go God on everybody."

Castiel looked up at him with a blank expression on his face. "Michael… What are you talking about?"

 _And….we're back to the_ Michael _thing._

It was time to try a new approach: clarification. "I'm _Dean_. Remember? You saved me from the vampires in Angels Camp."

The truth only made Castiel curl in on himself further. "Michael, I'm so sorry! I don't understand. I didn't mean to run away…It—It was Gabriel's idea at first, and then Lucifer dared me, and…"

With that, Castiel's breath came out in quick pants, and tears threatened to spill down his bruised face.

Dean was at a complete loss for words and decided to call in the cavalry.

"Sam?!" he yelled, a hint of panic in his tone. "Did you drug the angel?"

"What?" came a partially muffled cry from the kitchen. Then there was the stomping of heavy boots, and Sam's head popped in the doorway, a spatula in one hand. "No. Why?"

"'Cause I don't know what's making him go all Looney Tunes on me," said Dean, standing up. "Cas thinks I'm Michael."

Sam took in the situation and quickly knelt by the huddled-up angel. "Castiel?"

Cas's eyes snapped open and widened when they focused on Sam. "Lucifer! Why are you here?"

"Hey—it's okay," the younger Winchester whispered in his best soothing tone. "It's just me, Sam."

But Castiel just put his hands up in front of his face defensively. "Please don't hurt me anymore, brother."

Sam looked up at Dean helplessly, and Dean shrugged, shaking his head. Although slightly amusing in a weird way, he still hated seeing his friend in emotional distress, and he just wanted it to stop.

"I dunno, Dean. Maybe you were right about the whole hallucination thing. Cas _has_ been up for at least 24 hours. Maybe he's starting to crack."

Dean hunched down beside his brother and placed his palm on Castiel's forehead. It was all the information he needed to make a diagnosis.

"He's burning up—fever."

Sam's brows knitted with worry. "The shoulder wound…"

"Must be infected. We've got to clean it out and stitch it up _now."_

Sam made a move to help Castiel to his feet, but the angel shied away from his touch, shaking with fear. Shocked, Sam had to prepare the way for Dean as the older hunter gripped Castiel under his arms and raised him upright.

Slowly, they limped to the bedroom. Sam finished cooking and gathered the medical kit and needles, as well as some painkillers and a fever reducer.

Dean eased Castiel onto the bed in the spare room and got some pillows to prop him up with. He then gave Cas two pain pills to take, and although the feverish angel seemed confused about the entire process, he did as he was told. Angels, after all, have a strict chain of command.

Sam pulled Dean aside to confer while they waited for the medicine to take effect.

"So, what's going on?" Sam asked.

"Maybe some old memory that resurfaced. But it must be _really_ old if you're—I mean, Lucifer's—still in the picture."

Sam smiled slightly. "He must have run away from home when he was young."

"Well, the way _you_ say it, it sounds adorable."

"We must remind him of those angels."

Dean choked back a laugh. "No offense to the archangel, but I'm no Michael."

Sam shoved him playfully. "And you think I'm like Lucifer?" He looked over at the former angel, head nodding and his breathing slower than before.

"Maybe there's _something_ reminiscent of them in us, we being their vessels..."

Dean shook his head. "Or his brain is burning up, and he can't think straight."

"Yeah, but it almost makes sense. Think about it, Dean. No wonder he has so much guilt and so much to prove to us. Maybe deep down, he sees us as his older brothers."

Dean swallowed any emotion he felt at Sam's revelation and said, "Let's do this."

Sam had volunteered to do stitching duty, as he was the least tired, while Dean would assist and offer moral support for Cas. He hoped the angel would remain in his semi-lucid state because it would be easier that way.

However, Castiel woke with a gasp as soon as Sam leaned forward and placed a steadying hand on his arm.

"Don't—" he cried. "Don't touch me!"

Dean rushed forward as Sam stared at Cas speechlessly. "It's okay, Cas. Jeez, it's just Sam."

"I don't…understand," the angel panted, eyes wild, like a feral creature. "Lucifer tricked me, and he wanted me to run away…" He turned those glassy eyes to Sam. "Run away from our Father… Why are you helping me now?"

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, and his older brother gestured powerlessly back. Maybe now was the time to soothe Castiel's fears by playing into his fantasies. Maybe they should play the brothers as one big happy family? As usual, Sam read Dean's thoughts perfectly.

"I'm so sorry, Castiel. I didn't mean to cast you out—make you run away. I was being cruel, and I apologize. Michael and I want to help you. Would you let us help you?"

Castiel looked back and forth between the two brothers, his breathing ragged. At last he relented and lay back against the pillows in exhaustion.

"I forgive you," he said then repeated it. "I forgive you." And Dean couldn't help but wonder if Cas was really forgiving himself instead for the recent events in his past.

The brothers braced themselves for the worst, but the ex-angel had calmed down considerably and let both of them work unhindered. He barely winced when Sam inserted the needled into his flesh, and Cas kept his breathing calm so as not to disrupt the stitching. Dean was downright impressed with Castiel, that he could trust them despite the memories flooding his feverish mind. It made Dean only want him to be well again, to stop the constant suffering his friend always seemed burdened with.

The stitching went smoothly, and Castiel was soon sleeping comfortably, surrendering to unconsciousness at last.

 _He's back. You got your angel back, and he's not going anywhere._

Finally, Dean felt his own alertness break down once the crisis was over and began to succumb to the tiredness toying with his vision and making his limbs numb. Dean stumbled to the armchair by Castiel's bedside, and he slowly slipped into sleep, glad that Sam and Cas were safe and that they were all together again for the first time in a long time.

 **To be continued…**


	7. Broken

**Reparations**

 **Chapter 7: Broken**

Sam watched Dean fondly as the older hunter fell asleep sitting up and slumped against the armchair. Knowing his brother would get better rest in a bed, Sam carefully lifted Dean to his feet and guided him out of Castiel's room and into an adjoining bedroom. Like a sleepy and compliant four year-old, Dean followed Sam and didn't appear to wake up during the move. Sam put Dean in bed and laid a blanket over him. Then he went back to Castiel's room.

He hadn't mentioned this to Dean, already in the realm of dreamland, but Sam was worried about Castiel. Even with the fever-reducing medicine, it hadn't gone down below 102 degrees. Also, his sleep was restless, and Sam was afraid that Cas would wake up several times throughout the night.

The cat, Grace, having been fed tuna earlier by Sam, had apparently finished exploring the cabin and padded into Castiel's bedroom. Softly, she leaped on his bed and snuggled into the fallen angel. Sam smiled; he could hear her steady purr across the room.

Despite Castiel's situation, Sam settled himself in the plush blue armchair Dean had just vacated and felt sleep overtake him as well.

He awoke in complete darkness to a scream.

Immediately, Sam bounded from his chair, turning on a light in the process and made it to Castiel's side. He took in the angel's pinched face, his quivering body, and the sweat running down his brow.

"What is it?" Sam asked swiftly, his voice still thick with sleep.

"I—" Cas choked out. "I cannot feel my wings!"

Sam placed a hand Cas's forehead and hissed with displeasure; it was hot enough to cook a meal on.

"What's going on?" Dean asked groggily as he entered the room. That scream must have been _loud._

"Cas is burning up—" Sam tried to explain when the angel interrupted him.

"Can't feel my wings!" he cried again desperately.

The look Dean gave Sam was enough to make him wish his brother had never woken up.

"I'll get the cold packs," Dean said.

That left Sam with the majorly freaking out angel.

 _Thanks, bro._

The only thing Sam could think of doing was reassuring Castiel that everything was all right, even if it clearly wasn't. Castiel wasn't lucid, and Sam wasn't sure if he could handle the current state of his life (humanity) without keeling over.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Sam repeated as he rubbed Castiel's arm back and forth soothingly.

Then Dean came with the ice packs; thank the Lord. He placed one on Castiel's forehead, hoping it might help his fever go down.

Tears leaked out of Castiel's eyes, and Sam felt like giving up to see his friend so devastated and weak. It was tearing his already shredded soul apart all over again.

"Michael… What's wrong with my wings?"

Dean gave a "son of a _bitch"_ look at Sam, but managed to reply in a calm voice. "When you ran away, they were damaged. But it's completely temporary. You'll be able to feel them again soon. Now sleep, all right? That's a command from your pain-in-the-ass archangel big brother."

Castiel, ever the obedient angel, did exactly as he was told.

Dean switched out the cold packs and heaved a sigh of relief. "If we're gonna do that again, remind me to down a shot of whiskey first."

"Amen to that," said Sam.

They watched over Castiel for a few minutes longer in silence. The angel moaned in his sleep a few times and muttered clips of some language that could only be Enochian. Sam sat back in his armchair, and, try as he might to stop them, his eyelids began to droop again.

A pressure on his arm woke him up.

"Hey."

Sam started up, relaxing when he saw Dean. He could barely make out his brother's silhouette through the faint moonlight of a nearby window over Castiel's bed. The angel slept peacefully in the darkened room.

"Better get some _real_ sleep, Sammy. I'll stay with him."

And although Sam was going to protest automatically, something in Dean's uncharacteristically quiet demeanor silenced him. Dean and Castiel had always been close—perhaps this was Dean's way of forgiving his friend for Cas's past betrayal and coming to terms with the angel's unexpected re-birth.

"All right," said Sam and walked stiffly to the living room. The fire's embers were slowly dying, and he could smell the stale grease of hamburgers gone cold in the kitchen. Sam was about to plunk down on the couch when he heard a faint _meow._

Startled, he realized it was Grace. Sam had completely forgotten about the kitten roaming around the cabin. He could have easily crushed her as she lay on the sofa. Gently, Sam scooped her up in one hand and sat her on his chest as he lay back on the couch, his feet and shins dangling over the edge. Grace began purring, a drowsy rhythm that allowed Sam to drift into a contented sleep.

* * *

Castiel never imagined that he could dream. And, at first, it was difficult to discern between what was hallucination and what was reality. However, the burden of his phantom wings did not make his grasp on the tangible world any easier. They tugged along his back, making it burn.

That night, he had been aware of the dull ache of pain. Then there was Michael—a force of power—and Lucifer, darkness seeping from his eyes. But these brothers were different. Michael had been understanding and gentle in a way Castiel had never known him to be, and Lucifer had been caring. Or were they humans now too, like him? Wasn't he fully human now?

But he used to be an angel.

The pain gradually subsided as he slept, and Castiel was suddenly flying—his wings working again. But how could that be? Was he having a vision? No, visions, like given commandments, were brief and sharp. This was a dream. A _human_ dream. As he flew, Castiel gradually felt the breeze of a warm evening wash over him. He was flying over land, drawing closer to the dark blue expanse of water on the horizon. The sun went down in a piercing burst of orange light, and then he found himself hovering over the ocean, mirroring the sky above. Stars began to flicker on, like flashlights hanging from the heavens, illuminating a ship cruising swiftly through the night. Banking lower, Castiel admired the ship's name, ALEXANDER, painted neatly on its side. Then he realized that he was not only having a dream; he was re-living a very fond memory.

A sudden splash caused him to turn swiftly in mid-air and dive down towards the icy water, deftly picking up arms that had begun to flail frantically.

"Man overboard!" someone shouted.

The thirty-nine year old wasn't heavy in his arms, and Castiel easily pulled him out of the sea, swooping upwards to deposit him in a flash back on the deck of the merchant ship.

Castiel bent low and whispered into the man's ear as he shivered with cold and shock, eyes wide at the sight of the angel before him.

"When you get to America, you may want to head west of Virginia."

Then he was off, spinning around delightedly into the murky darkness of the night sky as the man shoved dark brown hair out of his eyes and sat in puzzlement as others gathered around him to chide him for getting too close to the edge of the boat.

Castiel just laughed, a rare burst of joy, uncommon for angels.

"Cas?"

His eyes opened, and his chuckles dissipated as he found himself back in bed, staring into the deeply concerned eyes of—

"Dean?"

Relief soon overcame the man's worry, and he sighed. "You probably don't know how glad I am to hear you say that."

Castiel rubbed his eyes, confused. "Your name?"

Dean placed a hand on his forehead, and Castiel was surprised at the touch, although he did not stop the man. "You were feverish last night. Kept calling me Michael."

"I did?" Castiel felt his mouth open with the question, embarrassed. "I apologize."

Dean waved nonchalantly. "I'm just glad your fever's broken. Want some water?"

Castiel nodded, taking small sips from the glass Dean handed him. "But I was sleeping just now… Why did you wake me?"

"You were laughing," Dean said, pausing for a moment. "And it creeped me out."

Castiel beamed. "I was dreaming about a happy memory."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked through a yawn. "What about?"

"It was the time I saved one of your ancestors from drowning on his way to America from England. It must have been around 1750."

Dean just stared wordlessly in surprise. "My… ancestor?… You saved one of my ancestors?"

"Yes. His name was William Winchester. He looked a bit like you. He was stargazing late one night and accidentally fell overboard. I was… in the neighborhood, so to speak, and picked him up."

The older Winchester merely eyed him strangely and put a hand on the former angel's forehead again. Castiel tilted his head at the gesture.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nah, Cas. Just wanted to make sure you still don't have a fever. It's been one of those mornings, ya know?"

Castiel nodded even though he had no idea what Dean was talking about. It was awfully nice and warm in his bed, with sunlight streaming in through a partially curtained window behind him.

Dean yawned again. "Well, glad to know you're feeling better. Sorry about last night and…" His voice faltered. "What do you remember about last night?"

Castiel found his memory was a bit muddy. "I remember finding a kitten."

"Okay, that's good," Dean said very quickly and stood up, stifling yet another tremendous jaw-cracking yawn. "I'm gonna go sleep now. Think you can make it to the kitchen? How's your cut?"

"Healing," said Castiel and wriggled around stiffly. "Yes, I think I can manage. But why would I need to go to the kitchen?"

"Last time I checked, angels without powers needed to eat just like people," Dean muttered, heading toward the door.

Castiel swallowed, admitting that he felt the sharp pang of emptiness in his stomach. The last thing he remembered eating was a piece of one of Sam's granola bars while driving them to Bobby's cabin.

Dean paused at the door to the hall, turning back to Castiel. "William Winchester, eh?"

Castiel nodded. "William Winchester. He had your eyes."

The hunter shook his head and smiled. "How about that." Then he disappeared down the hallway.

Castiel spent the next five minutes gingerly stretching his stiff limbs, careful not to move his upper body and put any strain on the bandages stretching across half his chest. He honestly wasn't sure if his feet would hold him, but when he stood up, they only wobbled slightly.

 _Step one: Walk to the kitchen._

With some effort, Castiel managed to follow his nose towards the dining area. For some strange reason, every new and delicious aroma from the kitchen caused his stomach to churn and gurgle unreasonably. Castiel placed hands around his abdomen, trying to make the sensation stop, but his stomach continued making little whining noises despite his silent pleas.

He doubted Sam could hear him over the noise of cooking. The tall man was moving quite deftly around the kitchen. For such a small space, Sam moved seamlessly from one counter to another, gathering plates and silverware with one hand while stirring something sizzling in a frying pan with another. He looked up when he noticed Castiel standing in the archway and smiled.

"Morning," he said. "Take a seat. Breakfast's almost ready."

Castiel cleared his throat and sat down slowly at the small wooden table. He was glad Sam had ordered him to sit because his legs had started visibly shaking, and he didn't think they would hold him much longer.

Sam breezed by and instantly placed a tray of steaming food in front of him, along with a knife and a fork.

"Scrambled eggs and bacon." Another grin.

Castiel swallowed thickly. "Thank you."

The younger Winchester walked away and was back in an instant with a glass of water that he set next to Castiel's plate. "Is Dean joining us?"

"No, he needed to sleep."

Sam nodded then fetched his own plate and brought it back to the table, sitting to Castiel's right. Castiel proceeded to watch in amazement as Sam devoured almost half his heaping plate of food in a few bites. Castiel set his fork down, willing himself not to feel sick. He knew he needed to eat, but the mere thought of food caused a wave of nausea to overtake him.

The younger Winchester noticed something was wrong, but before he had the chance to say anything, a chirping _meow_ caught their attention.

"How could I forget about you?" Sam cried, bending over and scooping the little creature up in one palm. He made a cup out of his hand and began stroking the top of Grace's head; she purred contentedly in response.

Castiel was suddenly distracted and forgot about the plate in front of him. "She must be hungry," he guessed.

"Yeah," Sam said and set Grace down on the floor gently. "Picked up some kitten food last night."

Sam got up and rummaged through a paper bag on the kitchen counter before producing a plastic dual-compartment food dish and a small can of cat food. He filled up one container with tap water and placed it on the kitchen floor. Almost immediately, Grace went up to inspect the dish with her nose and began lapping the water gratefully.

Next, Sam opened the metal food tin and grabbed a plastic spoon. But before he had time to bend down and transfer some of the wet food to the dish, Castiel said: "May I feed her?"

Sam looked over, a bit surprised, and then beamed, walking back to the table. "Sure, Cas. Here." He gave Castiel the spoon and the can of food. "Just give her a little bit."

Castiel nodded and slowly stood up, ignoring how wobbly his legs were. Grace rubbed up against his ankles as he entered the tiny kitchen. He read the label on the can of kitten food. "You are going to eat turkey and gravy. Does that sound agreeable?"

As if she understood him, Grace mewled in response. Then Castiel placed a few spoonfuls of meat in the dish. Instantly, Grace began to devour the food. Castiel scratched under her ears, and set the can back on the counter before observing the kitten eat. He was glad that he had been able to save her. At least _something_ good had come out of his being sent back to Earth.

Castiel began walking back to the table where Sam was finishing his breakfast when his head started throbbing and light began bleaching his vision into a bright wash of pastels.

"Cas…?"

He heard Sam's voice, but he couldn't respond. Instead, Castiel gripped the edge of the counter as if his life depended on it, willing the dizziness to go away. Then he felt strong steadying arms on his shoulders, holding him upright, and walking with him. Gingerly, they pushed him down, and he found himself sitting at the table. Sam shoved the glass of water into his grasp.

A command: "Drink."

Castiel sipped at the water, and slowly the world faded back to reality. Sam was sitting next to him, his face paler with concern. Castiel must have looked puzzled because Sam comforted him. "It's okay. You just need to eat."

The former angel turned back to his food, but it seemed futile. Eating anything appeared to be as tremendous a challenge as using his lifeless wings. If he still had his grace, he wouldn't need food to heal himself. It was like the entire process of eating was too painful in that it just reminded him of his own failures and weaknesses.

Sam (always the empath) said, "Okay. I get it. This is all new to you. But you like it when Grace eats, right? You like feeding her?"

Castiel nodded, finding his voice. "Yes, I like that very much. Does she need to eat again?" He made a move as if to leave his seat.

Sam pushed him back down patiently. "No. But she _will_ need to eat later today. And you'll need to have the strength to feed her."

Castiel continued to stare at his plate.

"You need to _eat_ if you want to take care of her… and Dean, and me."

The two sets of eyes locked eyes momentarily, and then Castiel picked up his fork. He skewered a small blob of egg and brought it to his mouth. There was a pause, he chewed it thoughtfully, and then swallowed.

Sam waited with bated breath. "The consensus?"

Castiel said, "Its texture is questionable—very soft. A combination of spices and salt enhances the flavor and makes it rich. The protein content must be very high, although it does contain a high level of cholesterol. On the whole, I enjoy it."

"Thank you, Data," Sam said sarcastically. "Wait 'til you try the egg _with_ the bacon."

Castiel's eyes widened, and Sam just laughed. "Cooking lessons start tomorrow."

* * *

Castiel gradually took to the art of cuisine, but within a week Sam had taught him basic recipes for nearly every meal of the day, including desserts. Along with an increased appetite, Castiel also regained his strength, as well as more self-confidence. Aware that Castiel's progress in healing correlated with their getting along, Sam and Dean also made a considerable effort to avoid past issues that would inevitably start a fight. If the brothers disagreed, they made sure they worked through the argument calmly—no yelling. The result was a much happier atmosphere, one where Sam and Dean began trusting each other again.

Hunting had to start up again eventually; there were only so many days that Dean felt comfortable _not_ hunting. Although Castiel insisted on accompanying them, the fact was that he was still not strong enough, and so the brothers left Cas the task of watching the cabin and looking after Grace while they were gone for a few days at a time.

Castiel was in the middle of some deep cleaning one day, mop in hand, when the boys returned.

"Cas!"

The ex-angel immediately tore the rubber gloves off his hands and dropped his mop in a hurry, dashing towards the cabin entrance.

"Oh my…"

Sam was draped over Dean's shoulder like a carpet, and blood ran down his face. The men smelled of graveyard dirt and smoke.

"Give me a hand!" Dean shouted gruffly. Of course, he didn't mean to be harsh, but Sam took priority over Castiel's sensitivities.

The fallen angel understood this without Dean having to spell it out. Instantly, he took hold of Sam's other side and helped Dean carry Sam to the couch. They set him gently down, and Dean didn't even seem to notice that he was covered in blood too. Castiel quickly scanned the older Winchester for any injuries, but Dean seemed to be unharmed.

"What happened?" Castiel asked quietly.

"Stay with him," Dean said, jolting off to the bathroom.

Sam moaned, and Castiel propped the taller man up to prevent him from sliding over on his side. At first, Castiel had been unsure, but it now it seemed that Sam _was_ fully conscious, just dazed. Castiel shifted in his seat, examining the younger Winchester's head wound. Luckily, it didn't seem very deep—just bled more than was healthy—and would need stitches.

Instinctively, Castiel reached out with both hands and held Sam's head firmly between them.

"Casss," hissed Sam, his eyes rolling. "What… are you… doin'?"

"Quiet," mumbled Castiel, intent on his actions. He felt a small swirl of energy inside him, and he concentrated on focusing it on Sam's cut.

Sam observed him warily, eyes glassy and confused.

Castiel closed his eyes then opened them.

Nothing happened.

"I don't understand…"

He tried again, applying greater pressure to Sam's forehead, closing his eyes.

Castiel opened them again, but the wound remained, dark blood beginning to dry and crust over.

Sam groaned, turning his face away in pain.

The former angel took his hands back, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else. He felt his face began to burn with shame, echoing the unpleasant tingling along his back.

 _Of course you can't heal him. Remember what you are._

"That's the last time you try to chase after a ghost without a flashlight," Dean grumbled, back beside Sam on the other side of the couch. He had returned with a bag of first aid supplies and immediately began applying a damp cloth and antibacterial medicine to Sam's cut. "We need to get your eyes checked, I swear."

Castiel continued staring at his hands, his heartbeat drumming faster and faster.

"Stop…" Sam winced at the warm cloth.

"Shut up," Dean said lovingly to his brother. "Cas, you should have been there. Sam tripped over his own big feet and face-planted into a tombstone."

Sam whined in protest and discomfort. "There was a tree root—"

"I should have taken a picture."

Castiel felt a sick sliding rush in his stomach as his hands warped and twisted in front of him, useless and lifeless.

"Cas?"

Once again, he had failed. Sam and Dean had accepted him back as an angel, not knowing his weakness, his frailty and failings. Not an angel anymore. Not really.

"Cas!"

He barely heard Dean's words as he felt himself running, running, running away. The bathroom. Once inside, he locked the door, oblivious to Dean's muffled shouts of concern. The pale face he confronted in the medicine cabinet mirror was pale and sneering with anger. He was ashamed of himself, yes. But he was more infuriated than anything.

 _Broken. You're broken._

It seemed only natural to want to destroy the image within its perfectly rectangular frame, so he took a fist to the reflection. Once. Twice.

"Cas!" Dean was shouting and pounding on the door. "C'mon! Don't do this to me, buddy!"

Three times. Castiel's fist came away bloody, shards of glass stuck to it. The mirror was fractured now, faint brushstrokes of red smeared between its jagged lines. Castiel felt a small glow of satisfaction when he looked at the distorted image of himself in the mirror, echoing how he felt. And, hey, his hands weren't useless after all. If they couldn't heal, at least they could destroy.

 **A/N:** Ah, the angst returns. One more chapter to go, but I wanted to leave you all with a little cliffhanger. As always, thanks so much for the reviews!


	8. An Inviolate Day

**Reparations**

 **Chapter 8: An Inviolate Day**

Castiel stepped away, crumbling to the floor as his legs gave way. He sat on the toilet seat, wiping the sweat from his brow with his good hand while wrapping his other hand around himself. Why did it seem like the temperature had just dropped twenty degrees? When Castiel exhaled, he could see his breath in the air.

Dean had stopped banging on the bathroom door, but Castiel sensed another presence close to him. It was someone familiar, but he was uncertain who would want to communicate with him.

"Cas?"

"Dean?" Castiel shivered.

"No, it's me, ya idjit!"

Castiel jerked his head up suddenly. Bleary eyes focused on…

"Bobby!"

"In the ectoplasm."

The old hunter's ghost shimmered in front of him, not fully solid. Castiel ascertained that Bobby had only recently been materializing; therefore he hadn't completely mastered the skill yet. And even though his skin was the color of grey ash, his appearance was an unexpected comfort. Bobby's hands were on his hips, and he looked predictably peevish. Typical Bobby.

"You know, I was the one who paid for that mirror. Sometimes I feel like those Winchester boys are competing for how many years of bad luck they can accumulate, so I expected sooner or later one of them would break it. But I never thought it was gonna be you, Cas."

Castiel swallowed, his throat dry, the cuts on his hand beginning to sting and throb. "I—I'm sorry."

Bobby took his hands off his hips, shrugging awkwardly. "That's all right." He paused, voice softening. "What's going on?"

The ex-angel shrugged.

"I saw what happened with you and Sam."

Castiel felt his face burn with the thought that someone else had witnessed his failure. "I couldn't heal him, Bobby. I wanted to… but I couldn't."

Bobby blinked, pursing his lips. "So? Last time I checked, humans couldn't spontaneously heal people… Unless you're Jesus."

Castiel sighed. "There is some small part of my grace still here, Bobby. But it's like I've been shut off from it. I… I can't access it. I don't know why I would be sent back without my grace and not get it back somehow. Why would…He want that?"

The ghost scratched at his beard thoughtfully. "Maybe you have more to learn about being human."

"But what's the point if I'm completely useless to my friends?"

Bobby thought about it for a moment then actually knelt down beside the ex-angel. Castiel looked deeply into the ghost's grey eyes, startled by their clarity. There was a sudden scuffling at the window, but neither of them paid it any attention.

"Look at Sam and Dean and how they watch out for you. They couldn't care less that you don't have your stupid magic powers. What about your cat? Do you think she loves you less because you're just a run-of-the-mill human?"

With that, the window was inadvertently shoved open, the cheap shades swaying with the sudden breeze, blowing away the frosty air. Castiel whipped his head back to Bobby, but the ghost of the hunter was gone.

"Cas!"

Dean grunted and climbed in through the forced-open window, swearing as he lost his balance and toppled in headfirst. Castiel couldn't help but smile at his friend's antics, fresh light shining on his face and warming him.

"What's so funny?" Dean snarled, righting himself and regaining some dignity.

"How's Sam?" Castiel asked softly.

Dean immediately eyed the mirror and squinted at Castiel, obviously turning on his so-called "bullshit detector."

"He's fine."

Castiel bowed his head. "I… I'm sorry about the mirror."

"Sam told me you tried to heal him."

"Yes," Castiel said through a forced laugh. "I _tried_."

The former angel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to hide his shame. He could feel his face burning, wishing that Dean would just walk away and leave him alone. But suddenly he felt a presence beside him, and he looked up in surprise to find Dean kneeling beside him in the exact place Bobby's ghost had knelt a few moments before.

"Let me see," whispered Dean.

Castiel showed him his hurt hand. Dean inhaled sharply between his teeth.

Castiel said slowly, "I think I'll live."

Dean looked up, his soft hazel eyes serious and pained. "Promise me you won't ever do that again."

Castiel nodded, his heart fluttering. "I promise."

Dean helped him stand, and together they walked out of the bathroom and back to Sam.

A month later, and Castiel had developed a comfortable routine of living with the Winchesters. Although they were concerned about him following them around on hunts, Dean had begun teaching Cas how to shoot properly, and the ex-angel was a quick learner. Both Sam and Dean still knew that Castiel longed to have access to his original abilities, but he had begun to develop something even more important—acceptance of who he was.

Castiel was happy. He had Grace, he had Sam and Dean, and they had everything they could ever need.

One day he woke up, and the cabin was empty. Castiel wasn't bothered at first. Sam and Dean often got an early start on hunting, and would sometimes leave without telling him. But it was when he searched the entire cabin for his cat that he began to worry.

"Grace?" he called, banging a fork against a can of kitten food, which was a sure method to get her to come to him. But there was no eager meowing, no light padding of little feet on the wooden floorboards.

He was alone.

Castiel took a deep breath and willed his hands not to shake. Slowly, he set the can of cat food down and opened the front door. At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the Impala was parked next to the cabin like it always was, hinting that Sam and Dean hadn't left.

But if they hadn't left, then where were they?

Castiel knelt down, wrapping his arms around himself from the chill of late November and squinted curiously at the trail of brown, yellow, and orange candies forming a trail leading away from the cabin.

He picked one up questioningly, and then began to follow the candy trail cautiously away from the cabin and down the road for an eighth of a mile until it abruptly veered off into the woods and a narrow path. The farther Castiel followed the trail, the more he wished that he had brought some kind of knife or other weapon with him. Images flashed through his mind of a dozen dangers that could be lurking in the dark forest ahead of him: vampires, Leviathans, Wendigos. Maybe some creature with a grudge against the Winchesters, or him. Although the thought terrified the former angel, it made Castiel pick up his pace.

Castiel hadn't suffered and barely survived his return to Earth only to lose Sam and Dean again.

After several minutes of hiking through the woods, a small patch of light in the distance indicated a clearing. As Castiel approached the sun glimmering through the trees, he realized it was actually a lake enfolded by the forest. The ex-angel gasped at its dazzling blue, mirroring the sky, and he put up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. Looking down at his feet, he realized that the candy trail stopped abruptly at the edge of the woods.

"Hey, Cas."

Prepared for an attack, Castiel jumped at the noise, and then immediately relaxed. His eyes squinted in the sun, and he said with confusion, "Dean?"

The older Winchester was standing on a dock that hovered above the lake to his left, stretching into it about fifteen feet. Sam was sitting on the shore at a picnic table close by. He held Grace in his hands, stroking her head between her ears. Even though they were some feet away, Castiel could hear her blissful purring.

"I…I don't understand," muttered Castiel. "I thought you had both been kidnapped."

Sam sighed and glowered at Dean. "I told you he wouldn't get the Reeses Pieces reference."

Dean pursed his lips in classic Winchester fashion and shrugged flippantly. "I thought it was _hilarious._ Cas, didn't you think it was funny?"

Castiel scratched his head. "I do not see the humor in candy-coated peanut butter."

The older Winchester stared intently at the former angel. "When we get back to the cabin, we're watching _E.T._ Whether you like it or not."

Castiel walked over to Sam and Grace, observing the spread of victuals and plastic eating utensils on top of a red and white checkered plastic tablecloth. It was clear that Sam had put some effort into this—

"Surprise!" said Sam, grinning. "Dean and I thought you needed to get out and relax for a change."

Castiel sat down, admiring the fare, yet unsure how to respond. "Thank you. But I do not understand what we are celebrating."

Dean walked over to them. "You never need a reason to celebrate, Cas." He nudged Sam, and his younger brother tossed him a beer.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You've gone through so much in the past month that we wanted to congratulate you, Cas. Your… humanity is really coming along well. Dean and I wanted to thank you, and…" Sam looked up at Dean, confirming with him before he spoke. "We want you to join us on a hunt tomorrow."

"And other hunts," Dean added, "in the future."

Cas sat in silence. Emotions rose up inside him as he looked down, avoiding eye contact with the Winchesters. He couldn't do this. He couldn't accept the responsibility or the privilege of joining the Winchesters. He would only bring them down.

"I…can't."

"Cas." He looked up as Dean sat beside him. The man stared at him evenly in the eyes, more serious than he had ever seen him before. "This is the right thing. You're meant to fight with us. I could say this in a million sappy ways, but _you_ know it's what's meant to be. You came back for a _reason._ And we're glad you did."

Dean placed a supportive hand on his shoulder, and Castiel looked deeply into the hunter's eyes.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"You remember saying something about no chick flick moments?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm witnessing one right now."

Dean cleared his throat, taking his hand off Castiel's shoulder and throwing a plastic cup at Sam's head. Sam laughed uproariously, ducking the cup easily. Castiel found himself laughing too, and soon Dean joined in. When Castiel wiped his eyes from the mirth, he found Dean handing him a brown parcel wrapped with twine.

"What is this?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "You're welcome to wear my old leather jacket, but I thought you'd like your old rag back when you start hunting."

In wonder, Castiel unwrapped the parcel and beheld his beloved trench coat, stitched up, washed, and pressed. It reflected in the sunlight, and Castiel hurriedly put it on. Like a second skin, he sighed as the wind rustled through the trees.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words coming out choked. "Thank you!"

Sam beamed, ruffling Grace's fur when she meowed in his lap. He clinked beers with Dean as the older Winchester began piling potato salad and sandwiches onto his paper plate.

Castiel took in the scene, not wanting to forget anything about this day nor about any second he had spent in the company of the Winchesters—the best friends he would ever have. In that moment, he felt the spark of his old grace stir restlessly inside him and grow. Hesitantly, Castiel walked to the dock and stepped lightly upon it.

"Cas?" Sam turned around in his seat, curious. "You okay?"

"Something is different," Castiel said, focused on walking the length of the dock.

"Cas!" Dean yelled behind him. "You better not be going for a swim. I don't know CPR." The older Winchester's voice was masking fear with bravado.

But Castiel was smiling. He reached the end of the dock and paused, feeling the glow begin in his chest, starting to permeate the rest of his body with a surge of energy. And along with the newfound grace, his once-useless wings began to come alive…

Before he could control the new power, Castiel found himself hovering three feet above the dock. He could feel his wings humming behind him—fully functioning.

Castiel spun in the air, unable to control himself, looking back at the Winchesters.

After the initial shock, Sam started laughing with delight, and Dean called out unintelligible words of joy, leaping into the air.

Castiel flew back across the dock in a matter of seconds, stretching his wings, and then plopped down next to the two Winchesters at the picnic table.

"All right," the angel said in one breath. "When do we start?"

 **Fin**

 **A/N:** Apologies for the ultra cheesy ending, but I've been craving some happy endings for the boys lately. This has been the longest _Supernatural_ fanfic I've ever written. I have a couple others in the rough draft stage that I hope to share in the next few months. Thank you all so much for reading! Your encouragement has really meant a lot to me. Cheers!


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